One
One
At six thirteen a.m. on a Friday morning Lucy Angkatell’s big blue eyes opened upon another dayand, as always, she was at once wide awake and began immediately to deal with the problemsconjured up by her incredibly active mind. Feeling urgently the need of consultation andconversation, and selecting for the purpose her young cousin, Midge Hardcastle, who had arrivedat The Hollow the night before, Lady Angkatell slipped quickly out of bed, threw a négligée roundher still graceful shoulders, and went along the passage to Midge’s room. Since she was a womanof disconcertingly rapid thought processes, Lady Angkatell, as was her invariable custom,commenced the conversation in her own mind, supplying Midge’s answers out of her own fertileimagination.
The conversation was in full swing when Lady Angkatell flung open Midge’s door.
“—And so, darling, you really must agree that the weekend is going to present difficulties!”
“Eh? Hwah!” Midge grunted inarticulately, aroused thus abruptly from a satisfying and deepsleep.
Lady Angkatell crossed to the window, opening the shutters and jerking up the blind with abrisk movement, letting in the pale light of a September dawn.
“Birds!” she observed, peering with kindly pleasure through the pane. “So sweet.”
“What?”
“Well, at any rate, the weather isn’t going to present difficulties. It looks as though it has set infine. That’s something. Because if a lot of discordant personalities are boxed up indoors, I’m sureyou will agree with me that it makes it ten times worse. Round games perhaps, and that would belike last year when I shall never forgive myself about poor Gerda. I said to Henry afterwards itwas most thoughtless of me—and one has to have her, of course, because it would be so rude toask John without her, but it really does make things difficult—and the worst of it is that she is sonice—really it seems odd sometimes that anyone so nice as Gerda is should be so devoid of anykind of intelligence, and if that is what they mean by the law of compensation I don’t really thinkit is at all fair.”
“What are you talking about, Lucy?”
“The weekend, darling. The people who are coming tomorrow. I have been thinking about it allnight and I have been dreadfully bothered about it. So it really is a relief to talk it over with you,Midge. You are always so sensible and practical.”
“Lucy,” said Midge sternly. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Not exactly, darling. I never do, you know.”
“It’s quarter past six.”
“Yes, dear,” said Lady Angkatell, with no signs of contrition.
Midge gazed sternly at her. How maddening, how absolutely impossible Lucy was! Really,thought Midge, I don’t know why we put up with her!
Yet even as she voiced the thought to herself, she was aware of the answer. Lucy Angkatell wassmiling, and as Midge looked at her, she felt the extraordinary pervasive charm that Lucy hadwielded all her life and that even now, at over sixty, had not failed her. Because of it, people allover the world, foreign potentates, ADCs, Government officials, had endured inconvenience,annoyance and bewilderment. It was the childlike pleasure and delight in her own doings thatdisarmed and nullified criticism. Lucy had but to open those wide blue eyes and stretch out thosefragile hands, and murmur, “Oh! but I’m so sorry…” and resentment immediately vanished.
“Darling,” said Lady Angkatell, “I’m so sorry. You should have told me!”
“I’m telling you now—but it’s too late! I’m thoroughly awake.”
“What a shame! But you will help me, won’t you?”
“About the weekend? Why? What’s wrong with it?”
Lady Angkatell sat down on the edge of the bed. It was not, Midge thought, like anyone elsesitting on your bed. It was as insubstantial as though a fairy had poised itself there for a minute.
Lady Angkatell stretched out fluttering white hands in a lovely, helpless gesture.
“All the wrong people coming—the wrong people to be together, I mean—not in themselves.
They’re all charming really.”
“Who is coming?”
Midge pushed thick wiry black hair back from her square forehead with a sturdy brown arm.
Nothing insubstantial or fairylike about her.
“Well, John and Gerda. That’s all right by itself. I mean, John is delightful—most attractive.
And as for poor Gerda—well, I mean, we must all be very kind. Very, very kind.”
Moved by an obscure instinct of defence, Midge said:
“Oh, come now, she’s not as bad as that.”
“Oh, darling, she’s pathetic. Those eyes. And she never seems to understand a single word onesays.”
“She doesn’t,” said Midge. “Not what you say—but I don’t know that I blame her. Your mind,Lucy, goes so fast, that to keep pace with it your conversation takes the most amazing leaps. Allthe connecting links are left out.”
“Just like a monkey,” said Lady Angkatell vaguely.
“But who else is coming besides the Christows? Henrietta, I suppose?”
Lady Angkatell’s face brightened.
“Yes—and I really do feel that she will be a tower of strength. She always is. Henrietta, youknow, is really kind—kind all through, not just on top. She will help a lot with poor Gerda. Shewas simply wonderful last year. That was the time we played limericks, or word-making, orquotations—or one of those things, and we had all finished and were reading them out when wesuddenly discovered that poor dear Gerda hadn’t even begun. She wasn’t even sure what the gamewas. It was dreadful, wasn’t it, Midge?”
“Why anyone ever comes to stay with the Angkatells, I don’t know,” said Midge. “What withthe brainwork, and the round games, and your peculiar style of conversation, Lucy.”
“Yes, darling, we must be trying—and it must always be hateful for Gerda, and I often thinkthat if she had any spirit she would stay away—but however, there it was, and the poor dearlooked so bewildered and—well—mortified, you know. And John looked so dreadfully impatient.
And I simply couldn’t think of how to make things all right again—and it was then that I felt sograteful to Henrietta. She turned right round to Gerda and asked about the pullover she waswearing—really a dreadful affair in faded lettuce green—too depressing and jumble sale, darling—and Gerda brightened up at once, it seems that she had knitted it herself, and Henrietta asked herfor the pattern, and Gerda looked so happy and proud. And that is what I mean about Henrietta.
She can always do that sort of thing. It’s a kind of knack.”
“She takes trouble,” said Midge slowly.
“Yes, and she knows what to say.”
“Ah,” said Midge. “But it goes further than saying. Do you know, Lucy, that Henrietta actuallyknitted that pullover?”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Angkatell looked grave. “And wore it?”
“And wore it. Henrietta carries things through.”
“And was it very dreadful?”
“No. On Henrietta it looked very nice.”
“Well, of course it would. That’s just the difference between Henrietta and Gerda. EverythingHenrietta does she does well and it turns out right. She’s clever about nearly everything, as well asin her own line. I must say, Midge, that if anyone carries us through this weekend, it will beHenrietta. She will be nice to Gerda and she will amuse Henry, and she’ll keep John in a goodtemper and I’m sure she’ll be most helpful with David.”
“David Angkatell?”
“Yes. He’s just down from Oxford—or perhaps Cambridge. Boys of that age are so difficult—especially when they are intellectual. David is very intellectual. One wishes that they could put offbeing intellectual until they were rather older. As it is, they always glower at one so and bite theirnails and seem to have so many spots and sometimes an Adam’s apple as well. And they eitherwon’t speak at all, or else are very loud and contradictory. Still, as I say, I am trusting to Henrietta.
She is very tactful and asks the right kind of questions, and being a sculptress they respect her,especially as she doesn’t just carve animals or children’s heads but does advanced things like thatcurious affair in metal and plaster that she exhibited at the New Artists last year. It looked ratherlike a Heath Robinson stepladder. It was called Ascending Thought—or something like that. It isthe kind of thing that would impress a boy like David…I thought myself it was just silly.”
“Dear Lucy!”
“But some of Henrietta’s things I think are quite lovely. That Weeping Ash tree figure, forinstance.”
“Henrietta has a touch of real genius, I think. And she is a very lovely and satisfying person aswell,” said Midge.
Lady Angkatell got up and drifted over to the window again. She played absentmindedly withthe blind cord.
“Why acorns, I wonder?” she murmured.
“Acorns?”
“On the blind cord. Like pineapples on gates. I mean, there must be a reason. Because it mightjust as easily be a fircone or a pear, but it’s always an acorn. Mast, they call it in crosswords—youknow, for pigs. So curious, I always think.”
“Don’t ramble off, Lucy. You came in here to talk about the weekend and I can’t see why youwere so anxious about it. If you manage to keep off round games, and try to be coherent whenyou’re talking to Gerda, and put Henrietta on to tame intellectual David, where is the difficulty?”
“Well, for one thing, darling, Edward is coming.”
“Oh, Edward.” Midge was silent for a moment after saying the name.
Then she asked quietly:
“What on earth made you ask Edward for this weekend?”
“I didn’t, Midge. That’s just it. He asked himself. Wired to know if we could have him. Youknow what Edward is. How sensitive. If I’d wired back ‘No,’ he’d probably never have askedhimself again. He’s like that.”
Midge nodded her head slowly.
Yes, she thought, Edward was like that. For an instant she saw his face clearly, that very dearlyloved face. A face with something of Lucy’s insubstantial charm; gentle, diffident, ironic….
“Dear Edward,” said Lucy, echoing the thought in Midge’s mind.
She went on impatiently:
“If only Henrietta would make up her mind to marry him. She is really fond of him, I know sheis. If they had been here some weekend without the Christows…As it is, John Christow has alwaysthe most unfortunate effect on Edward. John, if you know what I mean, becomes so much more soand Edward becomes so much less so. You understand?”
Again Midge nodded.
“And I can’t put the Christows off because this weekend was arranged long ago, but I do feel,Midge, that it is all going to be difficult, with David glowering and biting his nails, and with tryingto keep Gerda from feeling out of it, and with John being so positive and dear Edward so negative—”
“The ingredients of the pudding are not promising,” murmured Midge.
Lucy smiled at her.
“Sometimes,” she said meditatively, “things arrange themselves quite simply. I’ve asked theCrime man to lunch on Sunday. It will make a distraction, don’t you think so?”
“Crime man?”
“Like an egg,” said Lady Angkatell. “He was in Baghdad, solving something, when Henry wasHigh Commissioner. Or perhaps it was afterwards? We had him to lunch with some other Dutypeople. He had on a white duck suit, I remember, and a pink flower in his buttonhole, and blackpatent leather shoes. I don’t remember much about it because I never think it’s very interestingwho killed who. I mean, once they are dead it doesn’t seem to matter why, and to make a fussabout it all seems so silly….”
“But have you any crimes down here, Lucy?”
“Oh, no, darling. He’s in one of those funny new cottages—you know, beams that bump yourhead and a lot of very good plumbing and quite the wrong kind of garden. London people like thatsort of thing. There’s an actress in the other, I believe. They don’t live in them all the time like wedo. Still,” Lady Angkatell moved vaguely across the room, “I dare say it pleases them. Midge,darling, it’s sweet of you to have been so helpful.”
“I don’t think I have been so very helpful.”
“Oh, haven’t you?” Lucy Angkatell looked surprised. “Well, have a nice sleep now and don’tget up to breakfast, and when you do get up, do be as rude as ever you like.”
“Rude?” Midge looked surprised. “Why! Oh!” she laughed. “I see! Penetrating of you, Lucy.
Perhaps I’ll take you at your word.”
Lady Angkatell smiled and went out. As she passed the open bathroom door and saw the kettleand gas ring, an idea came to her.
People were fond of tea, she knew—and Midge wouldn’t be called for hours. She would makeMidge some tea. She put the kettle on and then went on down the passage.
She paused at her husband’s door and turned the handle, but Sir Henry Angkatell, that ableadministrator, knew his Lucy. He was extremely fond of her, but he liked his morning sleepundisturbed. The door was locked.
Lady Angkatell went on into her own room. She would have liked to have consulted Henry, butlater would do. She stood by her open window, looked out for a moment or two, then she yawned.
She got into bed, laid her head on the pillow and in two minutes was sleeping like a child.
In the bathroom the kettle came to the boil and went on boiling….
“Another kettle gone, Mr. Gudgeon,” said Simmons, the housemaid.
Gudgeon, the butler, shook his grey head.
He took the burnt-out kettle from Simmons and, going into the pantry, produced another kettlefrom the bottom of the plate cupboard where he had a stock of half a dozen.
“There you are, Miss Simmons. Her ladyship will never know.”
“Does her ladyship often do this sort of thing?” asked Simmons.
Gudgeon sighed.
“Her ladyship,” he said, “is at once kindhearted and very forgetful, if you know what I mean.
But in this house,” he continued, “I see to it that everything possible is done to spare her ladyshipannoyance or worry.”
第一章
第一章
星期五早晨，六点十三分，露西•安格卡特尔睁开她那双湛蓝的大眼睛，又是新的一天。同往常一样，她立即完全清醒了过来，并且马上开始思考从她那活跃得令人难以置信的头脑中浮现出来的问题。她迫切地需要同别人商量和交谈，于是想到了自己年轻的表妹米奇•哈德卡斯尔——她昨天晚上才来到空幻庄园。安格卡特尔夫人迅速地溜下床，往她那优雅的肩头披上一件便服，径直走向米奇的房间。安格卡特尔夫人的思维活跃得惊人，因此，如往常一般，她已经在自己的脑海里展开了这场谈话，并运用她那丰富的想象力，替米奇设计了答案。
当安格卡特尔夫人推开米奇的房门时，这场谈话正在她的头脑中进行得如火如荼。
“——那么，亲爱的，你一定也同意吧，这个周末必定会有麻烦的！”
“嗯？哇！”米奇含糊不清地嘟囔了几声，从酣睡之中猛然惊醒了过来。
安格卡特尔夫人穿过房间走到窗前，敏捷地打开了百叶窗、拉开窗帘，让九月黎明那苍白的光芒照射进来。
“小鸟！”她兴致盎然地望着玻璃窗外，“真好。”
“什么？”
“嗯，不管怎样，看样子天气不会有什么问题。应该是晴天。这可是个好消息。你一定会同意我的想法，如果一大群性情迥异的人都得被关在屋里的话，情况可就糟糕得多了。
也许可以玩圆桌纸牌游戏，但可能又像去年那样了，想想可怜的格尔达，我永远都不会原谅自己。事后我对亨利说，都怪我考虑得太不周到了——但我们肯定得邀请她啊，因为如果邀请了约翰而不邀请她，可就太失礼了，但这确实使事情变得相当难办。最糟糕的是，她人那么好——说真的，这事儿确实很奇怪，像格尔达那样好的人竟然完全缺乏智慧，如果这就是所谓的补偿原则，那我认为这也太不公平了。”
“你在说些什么呀，露西？”
“这个周末，亲爱的，明天将要到这里来的人。我整晚都在想这件事，简直困扰得要命呢。所以能跟你讨论一下这件事，我觉得轻松多了，米奇。你总是那么谨慎又那么务实。”
“露西，”米奇严厉地说，“你知道现在几点吗？”
“不太清楚，亲爱的。我对时间毫无概念，你是知道的。”
“现在是六点一刻。”
“是啊，亲爱的。”露西•安格卡特尔说，语气中却毫无懊悔之意。
米奇严厉地注视着她。露西真是让人恼怒万分，完全无法忍受！米奇心中暗想，真不知道我们为什么都要容忍她！
然而，尽管在心中这么想着，她也很清楚答案。露西•安格卡特尔正微笑着。米奇望着她，感受到了露西一生中都拥有的那种超乎寻常、无孔不入的魅力。即使是现在，当她已年过六旬，这种魅力依然无往不利。正因为如此，全世界的人：异域君主、随军参谋、政府官员，都愿意忍受她带来的种种不便、烦恼和困惑。正是她在一举一动中流露出的那种孩子般的快活和愉悦，消解了他人的不满。露西只需睁大那双蓝色的大眼睛，伸出那柔弱的双手，低低地说一句：“哦！真是对不起……”一切不满就烟消云散了。
“亲爱的，”安格卡特尔夫人说，“真是对不起。你应该早告诉我的！”
“我现在正在告诉你——但是已经太晚了！我已经完全醒过来了。”
“太遗憾了！但你会帮我的，难道不是吗？”
“关于这个周末的事吗？怎么了？有什么问题吗？”
安格卡特尔夫人在米奇的床边坐下。米奇想，这可不像其他的什么人坐在你的床边。
她是那样虚幻，好像一个仙女在此停留了片刻。
安格卡特尔夫人以一种可爱而无助的姿势，伸出她那不断轻快挥舞着的白皙的双手。
“所有不合适的人都要来——我是说，不合适的人将要聚集到一起。我并不是指他们本身；事实上，他们每个人都很可爱。”
“到底有谁要来？”
米奇抬起一条结实的褐色手臂，把她浓密坚硬的黑发从方正的额头前撩开。她身上完全不具备虚幻的仙女气质。
“嗯，约翰和格尔达。这本身当然毫无问题。我的意思是，约翰非常讨人喜欢——相当有吸引力。至于可怜的格尔达——嗯，我的意思是，我们大家必须对她非常友好。非常、非常地友好。”
出于某种模糊、本能的反抗感，米奇说：“哦，得了，她才没有你说得那么糟呢。”
“哦，亲爱的，她可悲极了。那双眼睛。而且她似乎从不能理解人们所说的每一个字。”
“她确实不能理解，”米奇说，“不能理解你所说的话——但我觉得这不能怪她。你的脑筋啊，露西，转得实在太快了，想要跟上你说话的节奏需要进行大幅度的思维跳跃，每个转折之间的关联都被你省略了。”
“就像一只猴子。”安格卡特尔夫人含糊地说。
“除了克里斯托夫妇之外，还有谁要来？我猜，亨莉埃塔也会来吧？”
安格卡特尔夫人露出了笑容。
“是的——我真的觉得她是一座力量之塔。她总是这样的。你知道，亨莉埃塔真是非常和善——不仅仅是表面功夫，而是由内而外的和善。她在这儿对可怜的格尔达将大有裨益。她去年的表现真是太了不起了。那次我们在玩五行打油诗游戏，或是拼词游戏，或是引文游戏——反正就是诸如此类的某个游戏吧，当我们都已经完成，并念出结果的时候，突然发现可怜的格尔达竟然还没开始。她甚至还没弄明白游戏怎么玩。真是糟透了，不是吗，米奇？”
“我真不明白为什么有人愿意到这里来，同安格卡特尔家的人待在一起。”米奇说，“那么费脑子，还有什么圆桌牌戏，还有你那独特的谈话方式，露西。”
“哦，亲爱的，我们一定要尽量努力啊——可怜的格尔达一定非常厌恶这些事。我常想，如果她还有那么一点儿脑子的话，她就不该来——但是，事情就是那样了，而那个可怜的人儿一脸的迷惑，以及——唉——窘迫，你知道吧。约翰看起来那么不耐烦。我完全想不出来怎样才能使情况重新好起来——而就是在那时，我对亨莉埃塔充满了感激。她立即转向格尔达，问起她身上穿着的套头毛衣——其实是很糟糕的一件，还是那种褪色的莴苣绿，看上去无精打采的，活像旧货市场里的货色，亲爱的——格尔达立刻容光焕发。那件毛衣似乎是她自己织的，亨莉埃塔向她询问毛衣上的花纹，格尔达看上去极为高兴和自豪。这就是我所说的亨莉埃塔的独到之处。她总能做出这类事。这是一种技巧。”
“她愿意费那个工夫。”米奇慢条斯理地说。
“是的，而且她知道在什么情况下该说什么。”
“啊，”米奇说，“但那不仅仅是说说而已。你知道吗，露西？亨莉埃塔确实织了一件那样的套头毛衣。”
“哦，我的天哪，”安格卡特尔夫人面色凝重起来，“还穿了？”
“还穿了。亨莉埃塔做事总是做到底的。”
“是不是非常难看？”
“没有，穿在亨莉埃塔身上很好看。”
“哦，那是当然的了。这正是亨莉埃塔和格尔达之间的区别。亨莉埃塔做每件事都做得那么出色，而结果也总是那么理想。她几乎在每件事上都很机灵，对自己的专业也很擅长。我必须要说，米奇，如果有人能帮我们顺利度过这个周末的话，那个人一定是亨莉埃塔。她会友好地对待格尔达，会让亨利开心，还会使约翰心情愉悦，并且我很确定她能帮忙应付戴维。”
“戴维•安格卡特尔？”
“是的。他刚从牛津回来——也许是剑桥。这个年龄的男孩子真难相处——特别是聪明的那种。戴维就很聪明。人们甚至会希望他们能等到年纪大些之后再变聪明。而事实上，他们总是对人怒目而视，咬指甲，满脸的粉刺，有时还长了喉结。而且，他们不是默不作声，就是说得停不了口，说话又前后矛盾。然而，正如我所说的，我依然信任亨莉埃塔。
她做事很有策略，总能提出恰当的问题，而作为一个女雕塑家，人们都尊敬她。尤其是她并不仅仅雕塑动物或是小孩的头像，而是创作前卫的作品，就像去年她在新艺术家展览馆展出的那个用金属和石膏塑成的古怪玩意儿。它看上去很像希思•罗宾逊折梯 [1] 。它名叫‘上升的思想’——或诸如此类的名字。这一类的东西正能够使戴维那样的男孩子感到敬佩……我个人则认为那玩意儿傻乎乎的。”
“亲爱的露西！”
“但亨莉埃塔的某些作品，我觉得非常可爱，比如那件‘哭泣的白蜡树’。”
“我想，亨莉埃塔确实具有一定的天赋。而且她也是一个非常可爱、招人喜欢的人。”米奇说。
安格卡特尔夫人站起身来，又漫步到窗前。她心不在焉地玩弄着窗帘的系绳。
“为什么是橡子？真怪。”她嘟囔着。
“橡子？”
“窗帘系绳上的扣子啊。就好像大门上的菠萝形装饰一样。我是说，这一定是有原因的。因为系绳扣完全可以做成冷杉球果或者梨子的形状，但永远都是橡子形。它在填字游戏中被称为‘饲料用坚果’——你知道，用来喂猪的。我总是觉得这事儿太奇怪了。”
“别扯远了，露西。你过来是为了讨论周末的事情，但我不明白你为什么会这么焦虑。
如果你能放弃张罗圆桌纸牌游戏，跟格尔达聊天的时候保持思路的一贯性，并且让亨莉埃塔去驯服聪明的戴维，还能有什么麻烦呢？”
“这个嘛，还有一件事，爱德华也会来。”
“哦，爱德华。”米奇说出这个名字后，沉默了半晌。
然后她轻声地问：“你到底为什么要邀请爱德华过来度周末呢？”
“我没有啊，米奇。这就是问题所在。是他自己想来。他发了个电报过来问我们是否愿意让他来。爱德华是怎样的一个人，你是知道的。那么敏感。如果我回电说‘不行’，他很可能永远都不会再开这个口了。他这个人就是这样的。”
米奇缓缓地点了点头。
是的，她想，爱德华确实是这样的。他的面孔刹那间清晰地浮现在她眼前，那张她深深爱着的面孔，多少带有一些露西的那种不真实的魅力；温柔、羞怯、嘲讽……“亲爱的爱德华。”露西说，应和着米奇头脑中的想法。
她不耐烦地继续道：“要是亨莉埃塔能下定决心嫁给他，该有多好。她真的很喜欢他，我是知道的。如果他们能够在克里斯托夫妇不在场的情况下，在此共度一个周末的话……事实上，约翰•克里斯托总能对爱德华产生最不幸的影响。如果你懂我的意思的话，约翰表现得越是强势，爱德华就表现得越弱势。你明白吗？”
米奇又点了点头。
“可我也不能推延对克里斯托夫妇的邀请，因为这个周末是早就安排好了的。但我确有预感，米奇，事情将会很麻烦，戴维会对大家怒目而视并且一直咬指甲，大家都要努力不使格尔达感觉到格格不入，而约翰是如此热情，爱德华又是如此消沉——”
“这样的配方看起来做不出好布丁啊。”米奇低语道。
露西冲她微笑了一下。
“有时候啊，”她沉思着说，“顺其自然反而水到渠成。我邀请了那个侦探这个星期天来吃午饭。这样能分散一下大家的注意力，你说呢？”
“侦探？”
“他长得活像一只鸡蛋。”安格卡特尔夫人说，“他曾在巴格达解决过一些事情，当时约翰是驻伊拉克的大使。又或许是在那之后？我们曾邀请他和其他一些外交官吃午饭。我记得他穿了一身白色西服，扣眼里别着一支粉色的花，脚上是一双黑色的漆皮鞋。对那天谈论的内容我记得的不多，因为我对谁杀了谁并无兴趣。我的意思是，一旦人死了，为什么会死似乎就不重要了，而对此大惊小怪就显得很愚蠢……”
“但是你这儿有什么罪案吗，露西？”
“哦，没有，亲爱的，他就住在附近一间奇奇怪怪的小屋里，你知道的，横梁矮得能撞到头，还铺设了一大堆高级管道，花园的设计糟糕透顶。伦敦人就喜欢这类东西。我相信隔壁那栋房子里住着的是一个女演员。他们不像我们这样一年到头都住在这儿。”安格卡特尔夫人漫无目的地在屋里走来走去，“我敢说他们很喜欢这样。米奇，亲爱的，你真是太好了，帮了我那么大的忙。”
“我没觉得我帮了你什么忙呀。”
“哦，是吗？”露西•安格卡特尔显得很惊奇，“那么，你现在好好睡一觉，别起来吃早饭了。等你起床之后，请你想怎么粗鲁就怎么粗鲁好了。”
“粗鲁？”米奇看上去很惊奇，“什么？哦！”她大笑起来，“我明白了！你的眼光真毒，露西。也许我会听你的话来对付你哦。”
安格卡特尔夫人微笑着走出了房间。当她经过敞开着门的浴室，看到水壶和煤气炉时，忽然有了主意。
人们都喜欢喝茶，她是知道的——而米奇要几个小时后才会被叫起来。她可以为米奇煮一壶茶。她把水壶放到炉子上，继续沿着走廊往前走。
她来到丈夫的门前，停住脚步，转了转门把手，但是亨利•安格卡特尔爵士——一位能力卓越的行政长官，非常了解他的露西，非常地爱她，但不希望在睡晨觉时被打扰——把门锁上了。
安格卡特尔夫人回到了自己的房间。她很希望能跟亨利商量一下，但晚些再说也不要紧。她站在敞开的窗前，向外望了一会儿，接着打了一个哈欠。她躺到床上，脑袋贴在枕头上，不到两分钟就像个孩子似的睡着了。
浴室中，水壶里的水达到了沸点，并且继续沸腾着……“又报废了一个水壶，格杰恩先生。”女仆西蒙斯说。
管家格杰恩摇了摇他那满头灰发的脑袋。
他从西蒙斯手中接过完全烧坏了的水壶，走进餐具室，从碗柜底层拿出了一个新水壶。他在那儿储存了五六个。
“给你，西蒙斯小姐。夫人没有必要知道这事。”
“夫人经常做这样的事吗？”西蒙斯问。
格杰恩叹了口气。
“夫人，”他说，“既好心又健忘，如果你明白我的意思的话。但是在这座房子里，”他继续道，“我负责确保把一切都做到尽善尽美，避免夫人感到任何烦恼或担忧。”
注释：
[1]W.希思•罗宾逊（W.Heath Robinson，1872—1944），英国卡通画家、插画师，擅长创造“以极为复杂的方式实现最简单的功效”的机械装置。
Two
Two
Henrietta Savernake rolled up a little strip of clay and patted it into place. She was building up theclay head of a girl with swift practised skill.
In her ears, but penetrating only to the edge of her understanding, was the thin whine of aslightly common voice:
“And I do think, Miss Savernake, that I was quite right! ‘Really,’ I said, ‘if that’s the line you’regoing to take!’ Because I do think, Miss Savernake, that a girl owes it to herself to make a standabout these sort of things—if you know what I mean. ‘I’m not accustomed,’ I said, ‘to havingthings like that said to me, and I can only say that you must have a very nasty imagination!’ Onedoes hate unpleasantness, but I do think I was right to make a stand, don’t you, Miss Savernake?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Henrietta with a fervour in her voice which might have led someone whoknew her well to suspect that she had not been listening very closely.
“‘And if your wife says things of that kind,’ I said, ‘well, I’m sure I can’t help it!’ I don’t knowhow it is, Miss Savernake, but it seems to be trouble wherever I go, and I’m sure it’s not my fault.
I mean, men are so susceptible, aren’t they?” The model gave a coquettish little giggle.
“Frightfully,” said Henrietta, her eyes half-closed.
“Lovely,” she was thinking. “Lovely that plane just below the eyelid—and the other planecoming up to meet it. That angle by the jaw’s wrong…I must scrape off there and build up again.
It’s tricky.”
Aloud she said in her warm, sympathetic voice:
“It must have been most difficult for you.”
“I do think jealousy’s so unfair, Miss Savernake, and so narrow, if you know what I mean. It’sjust envy, if I may say so, because someone’s better-looking and younger than they are.”
Henrietta, working on the jaw, said absently: “Yes, of course.”
She had learned the trick, years ago, of shutting her mind into watertight compartments. Shecould play a game of bridge, conduct an intelligent conversation, write a clearly constructed letter,all without giving more than a fraction of her essential mind to the task. She was now completelyintent on seeing the head of Nausicaa build itself up under her fingers, and the thin, spiteful streamof chatter issuing from those very lovely childish lips penetrated not at all into the deeper recessesof her mind. She kept the conversation going without effort. She was used to models who wantedto talk. Not so much the professional ones—it was the amateurs who, uneasy at their forcedinactivity of limb, made up for it by bursting into garrulous self-revelation. So an inconspicuouspart of Henrietta listened and replied, and, very far and remote, the real Henrietta commented,“Common mean spiteful little piece—but what eyes…Lovely lovely lovely eyes….”
Whilst she was busy on the eyes, let the girl talk. She would ask her to keep silent when she gotto the mouth. Funny when you came to think of it, that that thin stream of spite should come outthrough those perfect curves.
“Oh, damn,” thought Henrietta with sudden frenzy, “I’m ruining that eyebrow arch! What thehell’s the matter with it? I’ve overemphasized the bone—it’s sharp, not thick….”
She stood back again frowning from the clay to the flesh and blood sitting on the platform.
Doris Saunders went on:
“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I really don’t see why your husband shouldn’t give me a present if he likes, andI don’t think,’ I said, ‘you ought to make insinuations of that kind.’ It was ever such a nicebracelet, Miss Savernake, reely quite lovely—and of course I daresay the poor fellow couldn’treely afford it, but I do think it was nice of him, and I certainly wasn’t going to give it back!”
“No, no,” murmured Henrietta.
“And it’s not as though there was anything between us—anything nasty, I mean—there wasnothing of that kind.”
“No,” said Henrietta, “I’m sure there wouldn’t be….”
Her brow cleared. For the next half hour she worked in a kind of fury. Clay smeared itself onher forehead, clung to her hair, as she pushed an impatient hand through it. Her eyes had a blindintense ferocity. It was coming…She was getting it….
Now, in a few hours, she would be out of her agony—the agony that had been growing uponher for the last ten days.
Nausicaa — she had been Nausicaa, she had got up with Nausicaa and had breakfast withNausicaa and gone out with Nausicaa. She had tramped the streets in a nervous excitablerestlessness, unable to fix her mind on anything but a beautiful blind face somewhere just beyondher mind’s eye—hovering there just not able to be clearly seen. She had interviewed models,hesitated over Greek types, felt profoundly dissatisfied….
She wanted something—something to give her the start—something that would bring her ownalready partially realized vision alive. She had walked long distances, getting physically tired outand welcoming the fact. And driving her, harrying her, was that urgent incessant longing—to see—
There was a blind look in her own eyes as she walked. She saw nothing of what was around her.
She was straining—straining the whole time to make that face come nearer…She felt sick, ill,miserable….
And then, suddenly, her vision had cleared and with normal human eyes she had seen oppositeher in the bus which she had boarded absentmindedly and with no interest in its destination—shehad seen—yes, Nausicaa! A foreshortened childish face, half-parted lips and eyes—lovely vacant,blind eyes.
The girl rang the bell and got out. Henrietta followed her.
She was now quite calm and businesslike. She had got what she wanted—the agony of baffledsearch was over.
“Excuse me speaking to you. I’m a professional sculptor and to put it frankly, your head is justwhat I have been looking for.”
She was friendly, charming and compelling as she knew how to be when she wanted something.
Doris Saunders had been doubtful, alarmed, flattered.
“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure. If it’s just the head. Of course, I’ve never done that sort ofthing!”
Suitable hesitations, delicate financial inquiry.
“Of course I should insist on your accepting the proper professional fee.”
And so here was Nausicaa, sitting on the platform, enjoying the idea of her attractions, beingimmortalized (though not liking very much the examples of Henrietta’s work which she could seein the studio!) and enjoying also the revelation of her personality to a listener whose sympathy andattention seemed to be so complete.
On the table beside the model were her spectacles…the spectacles that she put on as seldom aspossible owing to vanity, preferring to feel her way almost blindly sometimes, since she admittedto Henrietta that without them she was so shortsighted that she could hardly see a yard in front ofher.
Henrietta had nodded comprehendingly. She understood now the physical reason for that blankand lovely stare.
Time went on. Henrietta suddenly laid down her modelling tools and stretched her arms widely.
“All right,” she said, “I’ve finished. I hope you’re not too tired?”
“Oh, no, thank you, Miss Savernake. It’s been very interesting, I’m sure. Do you mean, it’sreally done—so soon?”
Henrietta laughed.
“Oh, no, it’s not actually finished. I shall have to work on it quite a bit. But it’s finished as far asyou’re concerned. I’ve got what I wanted—built up the planes.”
The girl came down slowly from the platform. She put on her spectacles and at once the blindinnocence and vague confiding charm of the face vanished. There remained now an easy, cheapprettiness.
She came to stand by Henrietta and looked at the clay model.
“Oh,” she said doubtfully, disappointment in her voice. “It’s not very like me, is it?”
Henrietta smiled.
“Oh, no, it’s not a portrait.”
There was, indeed, hardly a likeness at all. It was the setting of the eyes—the line of thecheekbones—that Henrietta had seen as the essential keynote of her conception of Nausicaa. Thiswas not Doris Saunders, it was a blind girl about whom a poem could be made. The lips wereparted as Doris’s were parted, but they were not Doris’s lips. They were lips that would speakanother language and would utter thoughts that were not Doris’s thoughts—None of the features were clearly defined. It was Nausicaa remembered, not seen….
“Well,” said Miss Saunders doubtfully, “I suppose it’ll look better when you’ve got on with it abit…And you really don’t want me anymore?”
“No, thank you,” said Henrietta (“And thank God I don’t!” said her inner mind). “You’ve beensimply splendid. I’m very grateful.”
She got rid of Doris expertly and returned to make herself some black coffee. She was tired—she was horribly tired. But happy—happy and at peace.
“Thank goodness,” she thought, “now I can be a human being again.”
And at once her thoughts went to John.
“John,” she thought. Warmth crept into her cheeks, a sudden quick lifting of the heart made herspirits soar.
“Tomorrow,” she thought, “I’m going to The Hollow…I shall see John….”
She sat quite still, sprawled back on the divan, drinking down the hot, strong liquid. She drankthree cups of it. She felt vitality surging back.
It was nice, she thought, to be a human being again…and not that other thing. Nice to havestopped feeling restless and miserable and driven. Nice to be able to stop walking about the streetsunhappily, looking for something, and feeling irritable and impatient because, really, you didn’tknow what you were looking for! Now, thank goodness, there would be only hard work—and whominded hard work?
She put down the empty cup and got up and strolled back to Nausicaa. She looked at it for sometime, and slowly a little frown crept between her brows.
It wasn’t—it wasn’t quite—
What was it that was wrong?…
Blind eyes.
Blind eyes that were more beautiful than any eyes that could see…Blind eyes that tore at yourheart because they were blind…Had she got that or hadn’t she?
She’d got it, yes—but she’d got something else as well. Something that she hadn’t meant orthought about…The structure was all right—yes, surely. But where did it come from—that faint,insidious suggestion?….
The suggestion, somewhere, of a common spiteful mind.
She hadn’t been listening, not really listening. Yet somehow, in through her ears and out at herfingers, it had worked its way into the clay.
And she wouldn’t, she knew she wouldn’t, be able to get it out again….
Henrietta turned away sharply. Perhaps it was fancy. Yes, surely it was fancy. She would feelquite differently about it in the morning. She thought with dismay:
“How vulnerable one is….”
She walked, frowning, up to the end of the studio. She stopped in front of her figure of TheWorshipper.
That was all right—a lovely bit of pearwood, graining just right. She’d saved it up for ages,hoarding it.
She looked at it critically. Yes, it was good. No doubt about that. The best thing she had donefor a long time—it was for the International Group. Yes, quite a worthy exhibit.
She’d got it all right: the humility, the strength in the neck muscles, the bowed shoulders, theslightly upraised face—a featureless face, since worship drives out personality.
Yes, submission, adoration—and that final devotion that is beyond, not this side, idolatry….
Henrietta sighed. If only, she thought, John had not been so angry.
It had startled her, that anger. It had told her something about him that he did not, she thought,know himself.
He had said flatly: “You can’t exhibit that!”
And she had said, as flatly: “I shall.”
She went slowly back to Nausicaa. There was nothing there, she thought, that she couldn’t putright. She sprayed it and wrapped it up in the damp cloths. It would have to stand over untilMonday or Tuesday. There was no hurry now. The urgency had gone—all the essential planeswere there. It only needed patience.
Ahead of her were three happy days with Lucy and Henry and Midge—and John!
She yawned, stretched herself like a cat stretches itself with relish and abandon, pulling out eachmuscle to its fullest extent. She knew suddenly how very tired she was.
She had a hot bath and went to bed. She lay on her back staring at a star or two through theskylight. Then from there her eyes went to the one light always left on, the small bulb thatilluminated the glass mask that had been one of her earliest bits of work. Rather an obvious piece,she thought now. Conventional in its suggestion.
Lucky, thought Henrietta, that one outgrew oneself….
And now, sleep! The strong black coffee that she had drunk did not bring wakefulness in itstrain unless she wished it to do so. Long ago she had taught herself the essential rhythm that couldbring oblivion at call.
You took thoughts, choosing them out of your store, and then, not dwelling on them, you letthem slip through the fingers of your mind, never clutching at them, never dwelling on them, noconcentration…just letting them drift gently past.
Outside in the Mews a car was being revved up—somewhere there was hoarse shouting andlaughing. She took the sounds into the stream of her semiconsciousness.
The car, she thought, was a tiger roaring…yellow and black…striped like the striped leaves—leaves and shadows—a hot jungle…and then down the river—a wide tropical river…to the seaand the liner starting…and hoarse voices calling good-bye—and John beside her on the deck…sheand John starting—blue sea and down into the dining saloon—smiling at him across the table—like dinner at the Maison Dorée—poor John, so angry!…out into the night air—and the car, thefeeling of sliding in the gears—effortless, smooth, racing out of London…up over Shovel Down…the trees…tree worship…The Hollow…Lucy…John…John…Ridgeway’s Disease…dear John….
Passing into unconsciousness now, into a happy beatitude.
And then some sharp discomfort, some haunting sense of guilt pulling her back. Something sheought to have done. Something that she had shirked.
Nausicaa?
Slowly, unwillingly, Henrietta got out of bed. She switched on the lights, went across to thestand and unwrapped the cloths.
She took a deep breath.
Not Nausicaa—Doris Saunders!
A pang went through Henrietta. She was pleading with herself: “I can get it right—I can get itright….”
“Stupid,” she said to herself. “You know quite well what you’ve got to do.”
Because if she didn’t do it now, at once—tomorrow she wouldn’t have the courage. It was likedestroying your flesh and blood. It hurt—yes, it hurt.
Perhaps, thought Henrietta, cats feel like this when one of their kittens has something wrongwith it and they kill it.
She took a quick, sharp breath, then she seized the clay, twisting it off the armature, carrying it,a large heavy lump, to dump it in the clay bin.
She stood there breathing deeply, looking down at her clay-smeared hands, still feeling thewrench to her physical and mental self. She cleaned the clay off her hands slowly.
She went back to bed feeling a curious emptiness, yet a sense of peace.
Nausicaa, she thought sadly, would not come again. She had been born, had been contaminatedand had died.
“Queer,” thought Henrietta, “how things can seep into you without your knowing it.”
She hadn’t been listening—not really listening—and yet knowledge of Doris’s cheap, spitefullittle mind had seeped into her mind and had, unconsciously, influenced her hands.
And now the thing that had been Nausicaa—Doris—was only clay—just the raw material thatwould, soon, be fashioned into something else.
Henrietta thought dreamily: “Is that, then, what death is? Is what we call personality just theshaping of it—the impress of somebody’s thought? Whose thought? God’s?”
That was the idea, wasn’t it, of Peer Gynt? Back into the Button Moulder’s ladle.
“Where am I myself, the whole man, the true man? Where am I with God’s markupon my brow?”
Did John feel like that? He had been so tired the other night—so disheartened. Ridgeway’sDisease…Not one of those books told you who Ridgeway was! Stupid, she thought, she wouldlike to know…Ridgeway’s Disease.
第二章
第二章
亨莉埃塔•萨弗纳克捏起一小团粘土，轻轻拍到合适的位置上。她正以敏捷而熟练的手法雕塑一个女孩的头像。
有一个寡淡的声音正在她的耳边絮絮地抱怨，但那声音仅仅停留在她意识的表层。
“我的确认为，萨弗纳克小姐，我十分正确！‘真的吗，’我说，‘如果这就是你坚持的说辞！’因为我确实认为，萨弗纳克小姐，女人家就是应该在这种事情上采取坚定的立场——如果你明白我的意思的话。‘我可不习惯让别人对我说出那样的话，’我说，‘我只能说你的思想非常肮脏！’人人都憎恶不愉快的事，但我确实认为奋力反击是正确的，你不这样认为吗，萨弗纳克小姐？”
“哦，绝对是的。”亨莉埃塔说。她的声音中带有某种热忱。如果是非常熟悉她的人，也许会因此而怀疑她并没有在认真地听。
“‘如果你的妻子说出那种话，’我说，‘我对此也无能为力！’我不知道是怎么回事，萨弗纳克小姐，但似乎无论我去哪儿都会遇到麻烦，但我肯定这不是我的过错。我的意思是，男人们总是那么多情，不是吗？”那个模特发出了一串银铃般的娇笑。
“极其。”亨莉埃塔半眯着眼说。
真可爱，她暗想着，这眼睑下的平面——另一个平面则自下而上与之相接。下巴侧面的角度错了……必须刮掉重来。真难处理。
她用她那温和的、充满同情的声音说道：“对你来说，一定辛苦极了。”
“我真的觉得嫉妒之心非常不公平，萨弗纳克小姐，而且如此狭隘。说得直白一些，这就是妒忌，就因为有人比她们长得漂亮，比她们年轻。”
亨莉埃塔一边忙着塑造下巴，一边心不在焉地答道：“是的，当然了。”
她在很多年以前就学会了这种技巧，把自己的注意力区分成很多个互不相关的区隔。
她能够只分出很小一部分的精力，自如地打桥牌，与别人进行有意义的谈话，或写就一封结构清晰的信件。此刻，她正全神贯注地研究在她指间慢慢成形的瑙西卡 [1] 的头部，而从那对非常可爱又充满孩子气的嘴唇中源源不断地吐露出的空洞而恶毒的话语，丝毫未能侵入她的大脑深处。她毫不费力地维持着这场谈话。她已经习惯了那些爱说话的模特。职业模特倒是很少会这样——而业余模特，由于对必须保持四肢一动不动感到不自在，作为补偿，就会滔滔不绝地倾诉心声。因此，亨莉埃塔心中极小的一部分倾听着，应答着，然而，在某个很遥远的地方，真实的亨莉埃塔评论道：“多么平凡的姑娘啊，刻薄，恶毒——但那双眼睛啊……多么多么可爱的眼睛……”
她忙于塑造眼睛的时候，便任由那姑娘说话。而当她进行到嘴部的时候，则需要她保持安静。想起来还真是有趣，那一连串空洞而恶毒的话语，竟然出自如此完美的弯唇。
哦，见鬼，亨莉埃塔突然感到一阵慌乱，她想，我正在毁掉眉毛的弧度！究竟出了什么问题？我过于强调骨骼了——眉毛应该是锐利的，没有那么粗浓……她又退开几步，皱着眉头，目光从塑像转向坐在平台上那个活生生的人。
多丽丝•桑德斯继续说着：“‘这个嘛，’我说，‘我确实不明白，如果你丈夫愿意的话，为什么他不能送我一件礼物呢？而且我认为，’我说，‘你不应当说那些含沙射影的话。’那真是一个非常好的手镯，萨弗纳克小姐，真的十分漂亮——当然，我敢说那个可怜的家伙应该是负担不起的，但我还是认为他很好，而且我是肯定不会把手镯还回去的！”
“是啊，没错。”亨莉埃塔嘀咕着。
“而且我们之间并没有什么——我是说，没有发生什么下流的事——完全没有那种关系。”
“是的，”亨莉埃塔说，“我确信不会有的……”
她的眉头舒展开了。在接下来的半个小时里，她一直狂热地工作。当她不耐烦地用一只手撩开头发的时候，粘土抹上了她的前额，粘到了她的头发上。她的眼睛中有一种不易觉察的凶光。马上就有了……她马上就能做到了……用不了几个小时，她就将要从痛苦中解脱出来——那种最近十天以来一直在她心中滋长的痛苦。
瑙西卡——她一度就是瑙西卡，与瑙西卡一同起床，与瑙西卡一同吃早饭，与瑙西卡一同外出。她曾怀着紧张而兴奋的不安感沿街游荡，除了一张依稀在她的思想深处飘荡着的美丽却空白的面庞外，她不能将注意力集中到任何其他东西上——那张脸盘旋不去，却看不真切。她曾见过几个模特，考虑过希腊式的脸型，但总是感到十分不满意……她想要某种——某种能帮她迈出第一步的东西——某种能够将她已经部分具象化的想象真正化为现实的东西。她走了很远的路，让自己疲惫不堪，并喜欢这状态。而不断驱策着她、折磨着她的，是那种迫切而持续不断的渴望，去看清——她走在路上，像盲目的人一般。她看不到周围的任何事物。她在努力——始终在努力使那张脸更近些……她觉得恶心、难受、悲惨……
就在那时，突然之间，她的视野清晰了起来。她以那双凡胎肉眼看见了——当时她正心不在焉地登上一辆公共汽车，毫不在意它的目的地，而就在她的对面，她看见了——是的，瑙西卡！一张按照透视比例缩小的孩童般的脸，半张的嘴唇和眼睛——可爱的、空洞的、茫然的眼睛。
那姑娘按了铃，下了车。亨莉埃塔跟随着她。
她现在十分镇静和有条理了。她已得到了她想要的——那种遍寻不着的巨大痛苦已经结束了。
“对不起，打扰了。我是一个职业雕塑家，坦白地说，你的头部正是我一直在寻找的。”
她的态度友好、迷人，但又不容置疑，因为她很清楚，当她想要某件东西的时候应该如何去做。
多丽丝•桑德斯则表现得疑惑、警惕，又略带些得意。
“呃，我不知道，我想可以吧。如果你需要的只是我的头的话。但是我从来没做过这样的事啊！”
恰到好处的犹豫，巧妙地提出金钱上的要求。
“当然，请你务必接受应得的职业报酬。”
所以，瑙西卡来了，就坐在平台上，沾沾自喜于自己的吸引力，被塑为雕像而不朽（尽管她并不怎么喜欢亨莉埃塔工作室里陈列的那些作品），同时也极其享受将自己的心声一一倾诉给一个如此富于同情心，并且全神贯注的听众。
模特身边的桌上放着她的眼镜……出于虚荣心，她很少戴这副眼镜，有时宁愿像瞎子一般摸索着前进。她曾向亨莉埃塔承认，摘下眼镜后她几乎看不到前面一码远的东西。
亨莉埃塔理解地点了点头。她明白了空洞而可爱的目光产生的生理原因了。
时间继续流逝。亨莉埃塔突然放下手中的雕塑工具，长长地伸展了一下她的手臂。
“好了，”她说，“我弄完了。希望你没有太累吧？”
“哦，不累，谢谢你，萨弗纳克小姐。我觉得很有趣。真的已经完成了吗——这么快？”
亨莉埃塔笑了起来。
“哦，不，实际上并不算是完成。我还有很多工作要做。但是与你有关的部分已经完成了。我得到了我想要的东西——大块面部的结构出来了。”
那姑娘缓缓地从平台上走下来。她戴上了眼镜，脸上那种盲目、天真，以及模糊轻信的魅力立刻消失无踪，只剩下一种放荡而廉价的漂亮。
她走到亨莉埃塔的身边，查看着粘土模型。
“噢。”她怀疑地说，声音中充满了失望，“不太像我啊，是不是？”
亨莉埃塔微笑着。
“哦，是不像，这不是一座肖像。”
实际上，几乎没有一点相似之处。只有眼睛的结构——脸颊骨的线条——在亨莉埃塔看来这才是“瑙西卡”构想的基本主旨。这不是多丽丝•桑德斯，而是一个茫然得能令人诗兴大发的女孩。她的娇唇微张，就如同多丽丝那样，但那并不是多丽丝的嘴唇。那双唇能够说出另一种语言，表达出多丽丝绝对不具有的思想——没有一处面部特征是清晰地刻画出来的。这是人们脑海中的瑙西卡，而不是双眼所看到的……
“那么，”桑德斯小姐怀疑地说，“我猜，你再加工一下，它看起来会好一些吧……你真的不再需要我了吗？”
“是的，谢谢你。”亨莉埃塔说（“感谢上帝，我不再需要了！”她的内心深处这样说道），“你简直棒极了。我非常感谢你。”
她老练地打发走了多丽丝，回来煮了一壶黑咖啡。她累极了——几乎精疲力尽，但感到十分愉快——愉快而宁静。
谢天谢地，她想，现在我又能做一个活生生的人了。
她的思绪立刻飘到了约翰身上。
约翰。她想。一阵暖流涌上了她的面颊，心跳突然加快，使她的精神振奋起来。
明天，她想道，我就要去空幻庄园了……我就会见到约翰了……她安静地坐着，伸开四肢靠躺在长沙发上，喝下那滚烫浓烈的咖啡。她连着喝了三杯，感到活力又在体内奔涌了。
重新成为一个活生生的人，她想着，而不是另外那种样子，感觉真好。终于不必再感到坐立不安、悲惨不幸、被渴望驱策而无法自持；终于无须再郁郁寡欢地在街上走来走去，四处寻找，却又因为根本不知道要找的是什么而感到无比恼火与不耐烦！现在，谢天谢地，只剩下艰苦的工作了——谁又介意艰苦的工作呢？
她放下空杯子，站起身来，重新踱到瑙西卡的身边。她凝视了一会儿，眉心又慢慢地皱了起来。
这不是——这完全不是——
哪儿出错了呢？
茫然的双眼。
茫然的双眼比任何能够看清的眼睛都美丽……茫然的双眼撕扯着人们的心，就因为它们是茫然的……但是，她是得到了还是没得到呢？
她原本得到了，是的——但同时也得到了其他的东西。某种她从未寻求或考虑过的东西……结构是正确的——是的，当然了。但它是从哪里来的呢——那种隐隐约约的阴险的暗示？
这种暗示，来自于粗俗而充满恶意的心灵。
她之前并没有在听，没有用心听。但不知怎么的，那种想法还是进入了她的耳朵，通过她的手指，灌注到了粘土之中。
她已经没有办法了，她很清楚地知道，她已经没有办法把它从塑像中驱赶出来了。
亨莉埃塔猛地转过身去。也许这是幻觉，是的，一定是幻觉。明天早晨她的感觉将会截然不同。她沮丧地想，人是多么脆弱啊……
她皱着眉头，一直走到工作室的尽头，在她的雕塑作品“崇拜者”前停了下来。
这个还不错——一块上好的梨木，纹理恰到好处。她曾把这块木头珍藏了很久。
她以挑剔的眼光打量着它。是的，它很不错，这是毫无疑问的。这是她在很长一段时间以来最好的作品——它是为国际联合展而创作的。是的，一件有分量的展品。
她处理得很好：那份谦卑，颈部肌肉显现出的力量，弓着的双肩，微微仰起的面庞——一张毫无特征的面孔，因为崇拜使人丧失个性。
是的，屈从，仰慕——而那种终极的奉献，已经超越了偶像崇拜，进入另一境界……亨莉埃塔发出一声叹息。她想，要是约翰不那么愤怒该有多好。
那种愤怒曾使她震惊。这让她对他有了进一步的认识，而这些性格侧面，她想可能他自己都不了解。
他曾直截了当地说：“你不能展出它！”
她也以同样直截了当的口气回答：“我偏要。”
她又慢慢走回到瑙西卡面前。没有什么是她不能处理的，她想。她给它洒上水，用一块湿布包好。等到下星期一或星期二再说吧。现在不用着急。最迫切的部分已经过去了——所有基本的块面都已经形成，剩下的只需要耐心。
等待她的是三天愉快的时光，同露西、亨利和米奇在一起——还有约翰！
她打了个哈欠，像猫一般带着热情和松弛的心情伸了个懒腰，最大限度地伸展每一块肌肉。她突然意识到了自己有多么疲惫。
她泡了个热水澡后就上床了。她仰卧在床上，透过天窗看着空中那一两颗星星。然后，她的目光又转向了屋里一直亮着的一盏灯，小小的灯泡照亮了一个玻璃面罩，那是她的一件早期作品。现在看来，确实涵义特别明显，带有传统风格的印迹。
多么幸运啊，亨莉埃塔想，能够不断地进步……
现在，睡觉！之前喝的浓烈的黑咖啡并不会令她失眠，除非她希望保持清醒。她在很久以前就学会了一种能够随时召唤困意的技巧。
从记忆库中选择出一些念头，接着，不要盘桓，让它们从指缝之间滑过，不要握紧，不要盘桓，不要集中注意力……就让它们这么缓缓地滑落。
外面的街道上，一辆汽车的引擎正在加速——不知道从何处传来沙哑的叫喊声和笑声。她把这些声音都纳入半意识流中。
那辆汽车，她想，是一只老虎在咆哮……黄黑相间……布满了条纹，就像布满条纹的树叶——树叶和树荫——一片热带丛林……接着顺流而下——一条宽广的热带河流……来到了大海上，邮轮启航了……沙哑的声音在道别——约翰陪伴着她站在甲板上……她和约翰启程了——蓝色的海水，步入餐厅——坐在餐桌对面朝他微笑——就像在黄金别墅餐厅吃饭——可怜的约翰，那么愤怒！……出门沐浴在夜晚的空气中——而那辆车，顺服地挂上排挡的感觉——毫不费力，平滑如丝，加速离开伦敦……沿着沙夫丘陵一路向北……成片的树林……树崇拜……空幻庄园……露西……约翰……约翰……里奇微氏病……亲爱的约翰……
逐渐陷入无意识之中，进入极乐世界。
但有某种尖锐的不适，某种萦绕不去的罪恶感将她拉了回来。有件事她还没有做。她一直在回避。
瑙西卡？
亨莉埃塔慢慢地，不情不愿地从床上下来。她打开灯，穿过屋子，来到架子前，揭下包着的布。
她深深地吸了一口气。
这不是瑙西卡——这是多丽丝•桑德斯！
亨莉埃塔感到浑身一震。她向自己辩解：“我能把它处理好的——我能把它处理好的……”
“愚蠢，”她对自己说，“你十分清楚应该怎么做。”
因为如果她此刻不马上动手的话——明天就会丧失这勇气。这不啻于摧毁自己的肉身，令人痛苦——是的，非常痛苦。
她迅速地深吸一口气，接着抓住那座塑像，把它从支架上扭下来，端着那巨大而沉重的东西，直接扔进粘土堆。
她站在那儿，重重地喘息，低头看了看被粘土弄脏的双手，依然感受到了生理和心理上的痛苦。她慢慢地把手上的粘土清理干净。
她回到床上，感到一种奇怪的空虚，以及宁静。
瑙西卡，她悲哀地想着，再也不会出现了。她曾诞生，惨遭污染，直至死亡。
奇怪，亨莉埃塔想，万事万物都能不知不觉地渗入你的内心。
她之前并没有在听——没有用心听——但已认识到了多丽丝那粗俗而充满恶意的内心。这个认识渗入了她的思想，并且无意识地影响了她的双手。
现在，那曾是瑙西卡——多丽丝——的东西，已经成为一堆粘土——一堆原材料，不久就会被制作成别的东西。
亨莉埃塔像做梦般地想到，那么，这就是死亡吗？我们所说的个性，就只是塑造的结果吗——他人的思想所产生的影响？谁的思想呢？上帝的吗？
这就是《培尔•金特》的思想吧？又回到了铸扣人的长勺中。 [2]
那个期待中完整、真实的自我去了哪里？
约翰也有这样的感觉吗？那个晚上他是那么疲惫——那么沮丧。里奇微氏病……没有一本书能告诉你里奇微是谁！真傻，她想，她很想了解……里奇微氏病。
注释：
[1]荷马著作《奥德赛》中的人物。
[2]《培尔•金特》，挪威著名剧作家易卜生的代表作之一，通过描述纨绔子弟培尔•金特放浪、历险、辗转的生命历程，探索人生的意义和自我的实现。在培尔•金特的生命接近终点时，一个铸纽扣的人找到培尔，告诉他，他的一生已完结并将被铸成纽扣，因为他一生都未保持真面目。
Three
Three
John Christow sat in his consulting room, seeing his last patient but one for that morning. Hiseyes, sympathetic and encouraging, watched her as she described—explained—went into details.
Now and then he nodded his head, understandingly. He asked questions, gave directions. A gentleglow pervaded the sufferer. Dr. Christow was really wonderful! He was so interested—so trulyconcerned. Even talking to him made one feel stronger.
John Christow drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write. Better give her a laxative,he supposed. That new American proprietary—nicely put up in cellophane and attractively coatedin an unusual shade of salmon pink. Very expensive, too, and difficult to get—not every chemiststocked it. She’d probably have to go to that little place in Wardour Street. That would be all to thegood—probably buck her up no end for a month or two, then he’d have to think of something else.
There was nothing he could do for her. Poor physique and nothing to be done about it! Nothing toget your teeth into. Not like old mother Crabtree….
A boring morning. Profitable financially—but nothing else. God, he was tired! Tired of sicklywomen and their ailments. Palliation, alleviation—nothing to it but that. Sometimes he wonderedif it was worth it. But always then he remembered St. Christopher’s, and the long row of beds inthe Margaret Russell Ward, and Mrs. Crabtree grinning up at him with her toothless smile.
He and she understood each other! She was a fighter, not like that limp slug of a woman in thenext bed. She was on his side, she wanted to live—though God knew why, considering the slumshe lived in, with a husband who drank and a brood of unruly children, and she herself obliged towork day in day out, scrubbing endless floors of endless offices. Hard unremitting drudgery andfew pleasures! But she wanted to live—she enjoyed life—just as he, John Christow, enjoyed life!
It wasn’t the circumstances of life they enjoyed, it was life itself—the zest of existence. Curious—a thing one couldn’t explain. He thought to himself that he must talk to Henrietta about that.
He got up to accompany his patient to the door. His hand took hers in a warm clasp, friendly,encouraging. His voice was encouraging too, full of interest and sympathy. She went awayrevived, almost happy. Dr. Christow took such an interest!
As the door closed behind her, John Christow forgot her, he had really been hardly aware of herexistence even when she had been there. He had just done his stuff. It was all automatic. Yet,though it had hardly ruffled the surface of his mind, he had given out strength. His had been theautomatic response of the healer and he felt the sag of depleted energy.
“God,” he thought again, “I’m tired.”
Only one more patient to see and then the clear space of the weekend. His mind dwelt on itgratefully. Golden leaves tinged with red and brown, the soft moist smell of autumn—the roaddown through the woods—the wood fires, Lucy, most unique and delightful of creatures—with hercurious, elusive will-o’-the-wisp mind. He’d rather have Henry and Lucy than any host andhostess in England. And The Hollow was the most delightful house he knew. On Sunday he’dwalk through the woods with Henrietta—up on to the crest of the hill and along the ridge. Walkingwith Henrietta he’d forget that there were any sick people in the world. Thank goodness, hethought, there’s never anything the matter with Henrietta.
And then with a sudden, quick twist of humour:
“She’d never let on to me if there were!”
One more patient to see. He must press the bell on his desk. Yet, unaccountably, he delayed.
Already he was late. Lunch would be ready upstairs in the dining room. Gerda and the childrenwould be waiting. He must get on.
Yet he sat there motionless. He was so tired—so very tired.
It had been growing on him lately, this tiredness. It was at the root of the constantly increasingirritability which he was aware of but could not check. Poor Gerda, he thought, she has a lot to putup with. If only she was not so submissive—so ready to admit herself in the wrong when, half thetime, it was he who was to blame! There were days when everything that Gerda said or didconspired to irritate him, and mainly, he thought ruefully, it was her virtues that irritated him. Itwas her patience, her unselfishness, her subordination of her wishes to his, that aroused his ill-humour. And she never resented his quick bursts of temper, never stuck to her own opinion inpreference to his, never attempted to strike out a line of her own.
(Well, he thought, that’s why you married her, isn’t it? What are you complaining about? Afterthat summer at San Miguel…)
Curious, when you came to think of it, that the very qualities that irritated him in Gerda werethe qualities he wanted so badly to find in Henrietta. What irritated him in Henrietta (no, that wasthe wrong word—it was anger, not irritation, that she inspired)—what angered him there wasHenrietta’s unswerving rectitude where he was concerned. It was so at variance to her attitude tothe world in general. He had said to her once:
“I think you are the greatest liar I know.”
“Perhaps.”
“You are always willing to say anything to people if only it pleases them.”
“That always seems to me more important.”
“More important than speaking the truth?”
“Much more.”
“Then why in God’s name can’t you lie a little more to me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, John, but I can’t.”
“You must know so often what I want you to say.”
Come now, he mustn’t start thinking of Henrietta. He’d be seeing her this very afternoon. Thething to do now was to get on with things! Ring the bell and see this last damned woman. Anothersickly creature! One-tenth genuine ailment and nine-tenths hypochondria! Well, why shouldn’t sheenjoy ill health if she cared to pay for it? It balanced the Mrs. Crabtrees of this world.
But still he sat there motionless.
He was tired—he was so very tired. It seemed to him that he had been tired for a very long time.
There was something he wanted—wanted badly.
And there shot into his mind the thought: “I want to go home.”
It astonished him. Where had that thought come from? And what did it mean? Home? He hadnever had a home. His parents had been Anglo-Indians, he had been brought up, bandied aboutfrom aunt to uncle, one set of holidays with each. The first permanent home he had had, hesupposed, was this house in Harley Street.
Did he think of this house as home? He shook his head. He knew that he didn’t.
But his medical curiosity was aroused. What had he meant by that phrase that had flashed outsuddenly in his mind?
I want to go home.
There must be something—some image.
He half-closed his eyes—there must be some background.
And very clearly, before his mind’s eye, he saw the deep blue of the Mediterranean Sea, thepalms, the cactus and the prickly pear; he smelt the hot summer dust, and remembered the coolfeeling of the water after lying on the beach in the sun. San Miguel!
He was startled—a little disturbed. He hadn’t thought of San Miguel for years. He certainlydidn’t want to go back there. All that belonged to a past chapter in his life.
That was twelve—fourteen—fifteen years ago. And he’d done the right thing! His judgment hadbeen absolutely right! He’d been madly in love with Veronica but it wouldn’t have done. Veronicawould have swallowed him body and soul. She was the complete egoist and she had made nobones about admitting it! Veronica had grabbed most things that she wanted, but she hadn’t beenable to grab him! He’d escaped. He had, he supposed, treated her badly from the conventionalpoint of view. In plain words, he had jilted her! But the truth was that he intended to live his ownlife, and that was a thing that Veronica would not have allowed him to do. She intended to live herlife and carry John along as an extra.
She had been astonished when he had refused to come with her to Hollywood.
She had said disdainfully:
“If you really want to be a doctor you can take a degree over there, I suppose, but it’s quiteunnecessary. You’ve got enough to live on, and I shall be making heaps of money.”
And he had replied vehemently:
“But I’m keen on my profession. I’m going to work with Radley.”
His voice—a young enthusiastic voice—was quite awed.
Veronica sniffed.
“That funny snuffy old man?”
“That funny snuffy old man,” John had said angrily, “has done some of the most valuableresearch work on Pratt’s Disease—”
She had interrupted: Who cared for Pratt’s Disease? California, she said, was an enchantingclimate. And it was fun to see the world. She added: “I shall hate it without you. I want you, John—I need you.”
And then he had put forward the, to Veronica, amazing suggestion that she should turn downthe Hollywood offer and marry him and settle down in London.
She was amused and quite firm. She was going to Hollywood, and she loved John, and Johnmust marry her and come too. She had had no doubts of her beauty and of her power.
He had seen that there was only one thing to be done and he had done it. He had written to herbreaking off the engagement.
He had suffered a good deal, but he had had no doubts as to the wisdom of the course he hadtaken. He’d come back to London and started work with Radley, and a year later he had marriedGerda, who was as unlike Veronica in every way as it was possible to be….
The door opened and his secretary, Beryl Collins, came in.
“You’ve still got Mrs. Forrester to see.”
He said shortly: “I know.”
“I thought you might have forgotten.”
She crossed the room and went out at the farther door. Christow’s eyes followed her calmwithdrawal. A plain girl, Beryl, but damned efficient. He’d had her six years. She never made amistake, she was never flurried or worried or hurried. She had black hair and a muddy complexionand a determined chin. Through strong glasses, her clear grey eyes surveyed him and the rest ofthe universe with the same dispassionate attention.
He had wanted a plain secretary with no nonsense about her, and he had got a plain secretarywith no nonsense about her, but sometimes, illogically, John Christow felt aggrieved! By all therules of stage and fiction, Beryl should have been hopelessly devoted to her employer. But he hadalways known that he cut no ice with Beryl. There was no devotion, no self-abnegation—Berylregarded him as a definitely fallible human being. She remained unimpressed by his personality,uninfluenced by his charm. He doubted sometimes whether she even liked him.
He had heard her once speaking to a friend on the telephone.
“No,” she had been saying, “I don’t really think he is much more selfish than he was. Perhapsrather more thoughtless and inconsiderate.”
He had known that she was speaking of him, and for quite twenty-four hours he had beenannoyed about it.
Although Gerda’s indiscriminate enthusiasm irritated him, Beryl’s cool appraisal irritated himtoo. In fact, he thought, nearly everything irritates me….
Something wrong there. Overwork? Perhaps. No, that was the excuse. This growing impatience,this irritable tiredness, it had some deeper significance. He thought: “This won’t do. I can’t go onthis way. What’s the matter with me? If I could get away….”
There it was again—the blind idea rushing up to meet the formulated idea of escape.
I want to go home….
Damn it all, 404 Harley Street was his home!
And Mrs. Forrester was sitting in the waiting room. A tiresome woman, a woman with toomuch money and too much spare time to think about her ailments.
Someone had once said to him: “You must get very tired of these rich patients always fancyingthemselves ill. It must be so satisfactory to get to the poor, who only come when there issomething really the matter with them!” He had grinned. Funny the things people believed aboutthe Poor with a capital P. They should have seen old Mrs. Pearstock, on five different clinics, upevery week, taking away bottles of medicine, liniments for her back, linctus for her cough,aperients, digestive mixtures. “Fourteen years I’ve ’ad the brown medicine, Doctor, and it’s theonly thing does me any good. That young doctor last week writes me down a white medicine. Nogood at all! It stands to reason, doesn’t it, Doctor? I mean, I’ve ’ad me brown medicine forfourteen years, and if I don’t ’ave me liquid paraffin and them brown pills….”
He could hear the whining voice now—excellent physique, sound as a bell—even all the physicshe took couldn’t really do her any harm!
They were the same, sisters under the skin, Mrs. Pearstock from Tottenham and Mrs. Forresterof Park Lane Court. You listened and you wrote scratches with your pen on a piece of stiffexpensive notepaper, or on a hospital card as the case might be….
God, he was tired of the whole business….
Blue sea, the faint sweet smell of mimosa, hot dust….
Fifteen years ago. All that was over and done with—yes, done with, thank heaven. He’d had thecourage to break off the whole business.
Courage? said a little imp somewhere. Is that what you call it?
Well, he’d done the sensible thing, hadn’t he? It had been a wrench. Damn it all, it had hurt likehell! But he’d gone through with it, cut loose, come home, and married Gerda.
He’d got a plain secretary and he’d married a plain wife. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?
He’d had enough of beauty, hadn’t he? He’d seen what someone like Veronica could do with herbeauty—seen the effect it had on every male within range. After Veronica, he’d wanted safety.
Safety and peace and devotion and the quiet, enduring things of life. He’d wanted, in fact, Gerda!
He’d wanted someone who’d take her ideas of life from him, who would accept his decisions andwho wouldn’t have, for one moment, any ideas of her own….
Who was it who had said that the real tragedy of life was that you got what you wanted?
Angrily he pressed the buzzer on his desk.
He’d deal with Mrs. Forrester.
It took him a quarter of an hour to deal with Mrs. Forrester. Once again it was easy money.
Once again he listened, asked questions, reassured, sympathized, infused something of his ownhealing energy. Once more he wrote out a prescription for an expensive proprietary.
The sickly neurotic woman who had trailed into the room left it with a firmer step, with colourin her cheeks, with a feeling that life might possibly after all be worthwhile.
John Christow leant back in his chair. He was free now—free to go upstairs to join Gerda andthe children—free from the preoccupations of illness and suffering for a whole weekend.
But he felt still that strange disinclination to move, that new queer lassitude of the will.
He was tired—tired—tired.
第三章
第三章
约翰•克里斯托坐在他的诊室里，正在为上午的倒数第二个病人看病。他的眼神充满了同情和鼓励，注视着正描述——解释——阐发无尽细节的对方。他不时地点点头，表示理解。他问了几个问题，给出一些指导。病人的脸上微微泛起了红光。克里斯托医生真是太好了！他是如此专注——如此真诚地关怀病人。即使只是和他谈话，也会使人感到好了许多。
约翰•克里斯托抽出一张纸，放到面前，开始在上面写字。最好给她一付轻泻剂，他想。那种新出的美国药——包着漂亮的玻璃纸，外表是少见的橙粉色，显得十分吸引人。
这药相当昂贵，也很难弄到——并不是每个药剂师都有货的。她也许将不得不光顾沃德街上的那个小店。这对她应该会有好处——也许能使她精神振奋上一两个月，之后，他又必须想点儿别的什么药给她。他根本帮不了她什么忙。那么弱的体质，什么药都没有用！根本无从下手。不像克雷布特里老太太……
一个乏味的上午。收入不错——但此外也没有别的什么了。上帝啊，他太厌倦了！厌倦了那些病恹恹的女人和她们的小毛病。缓和剂，止疼药——来来回回也就只是这些。有时他怀疑自己所做的一切是否值得。但每当这个时候，他就会立即想起圣•克里斯托弗医院，玛格丽特•罗斯福病区，那长长一排的病床，克雷布特里太太咧开她那张掉光了牙齿的嘴，抬起头冲着他微笑。
他和她相互理解！她是一个斗士，而不像邻床那个虚弱无力的女人。她与他站在同一条阵线上，她想活下去——天知道是为什么，她居住在贫民窟，丈夫是个酒鬼，家里还有一大窝任性的孩子，她不得不日复一日地外出工作，擦洗无尽的办公室里那无尽的地板。
无休止地艰苦劳作，几乎没有任何乐趣！但她想活下去——她热爱生活——就像他，约翰•克里斯托一样，热爱生活！他们热爱的不是生活的条件，而是生活本身——对生存的热情。很奇异——无法解释。他心想，他必须和亨莉埃塔探讨一下这个问题。
他站起身来，陪那个病人走到门口。他紧紧握了握她的手，充满温暖、友善和关怀。
他的语气也充满了鼓励、专注和同情。她离开的时候感到相当振奋，几乎是幸福的。克里斯托医生是如此关心她！
房门在病人身后关上的瞬间，约翰•克里斯托立刻将她抛到了脑后，其实病人还在屋里的时候，他也几乎感觉不到她的存在。他只是在做自己分内的事，一切都是机械的。然而，尽管这只影响到心神的表层，他仍然付出了精力。他给出了一个治疗者的机械化的反应，而此刻，他感到精疲力尽。
上帝，他又一次想，我太累了。
只剩下一个病人要看了，接下来就是周末整段的空白时间。一想到这儿，他的心中就充满感激。夹杂着红褐色的金灿灿的树叶，柔软而湿润的空气中洋溢着秋天的味道——一条小径在树林间穿行——那火焰一般的树林，还有露西，那个举世无双、令人愉悦的生物——满脑子有趣而又难以捉摸的想法。在他看来，亨利和露西是全英格兰最好的主人家，而空幻庄园则是他所知道的最令人愉快的地方。这个星期天，他将和亨莉埃塔并肩漫步于树林之中——一直走上山顶，沿着山脊徜徉。同亨莉埃塔散散步，他就会忘记这个世界上还有病人。谢天谢地，他想，亨莉埃塔从来不生病。
接着，一个幽默的念头突然一转：即使她生病了也绝不会告诉我！
还有一个病人要看。他必须按下桌上的提示铃了。然而，不知为什么，他还在拖延。
他已经晚了。楼上的餐厅里，午饭肯定已经准备好了。格尔达和孩子们一定在等着。他必须赶紧了。
然而，他依然一动不动地坐在那儿。他累了——非常、非常累。
这种累的感觉最近一直在滋长。这全部源自于他那不断增长着的怒火，他心中十分清楚，却无法抑制。可怜的格尔达，他想，她容忍了他很多。假如她不是这么顺从——这么轻易地愿意承认自己错了（有一半时候，应当受到责备的分明是他！）——那该有多好。
有些时候，格尔达不管说什么、做什么，都会激怒他，而最主要的是，他懊悔地想道，是她的美德激怒了她。正是她的耐心、她的无私、她对他意愿的屈从，使得他心情恶劣。而她从不抱怨他那随时爆发的怒气，从不坚持自己的观点，只是一味地听从他的要求，从不试图说一句表达自己心意的话。
（唉，他想，这不正是你娶她的原因吗？你又在抱怨些什么呢？在圣•米格尔的那个夏天之后……）
想起来确实很奇怪，格尔达身上那些令他恼火的品格，却正是他如此急切地想在亨莉埃塔身上发现的东西。而亨莉埃塔身上令他恼火的（不，这个词不对——她所激起的是愤怒，而不是恼火）——令他愤怒的是亨莉埃塔在面对他的时候那种刚正不阿的诚实。这与她对待这世界所采取的普遍态度截然不同。他曾对她说：“我觉得你是我认识的最厉害的骗子。”
“也许吧。”
“你永远都愿意对别人说他们喜欢听到的话。”
“我一直都觉得这一点很重要。”
“比说真话还重要？”
“重要得多。”
“那么以上帝的名义，为什么你不能对我说一点儿谎话呢？”“你希望我这样做吗？”
“是的。”
“对不起，约翰，我不能。”
“你一定时刻知道我希望你说些什么。”
好了，现在可不能开始想念亨莉埃塔。他今天下午就会看到她了。现在要做的是继续工作！按响铃，为最后一个该死的女人看病。又一个病病歪歪的生物！十分之一的病人是真的得了些小毛病，而十分之九都是疑神疑鬼！呵，如果她乐意为此花钱的话，就让她享受她那虚弱的健康，又有什么不好呢？这些人正好和这个世界里的克雷布特里太太们一起，构成平衡。
但他仍坐在那儿一动不动。
他已经累了——非常、非常累。他似乎已经累了很长时间了。他渴望某种东西——极其渴望。
他的脑海里忽然闪出一个念头：我想回家。
这使他震惊。这个念头是从哪儿来的呢？它意味着什么？家？他从未有过一个家。他的父母长期侨居在印度。从小到大，他不断地从一个姨妈家流落到另一位叔叔家，每个假期在不同的亲戚家里轮流过。他拥有的最长久的家，他想，应该就是哈利街上的这座房子。
他将这座房子看作是家了吗？他摇摇头，很清楚自己并不这样想。
但是作为医生的好奇心活跃了起来。这句突然闪进他头脑的短句有什么含义呢？
我想回家。
一定有某种含义——某种景象。
他半闭双眼——这一定是基于某种背景产生的。
他的眼前仿佛十分清晰地出现了那蔚蓝色的地中海，棕榈树、仙人掌及多刺的梨树，闻到了酷热夏天的尘土味，回想起了躺在沙滩上晒完太阳后，钻入海水中的那种清凉的感觉。圣•米格尔！
他大吃一惊——感到有些困扰。已经很多年没有想起过圣•米格尔了。他当然不想再回去，那一切都属于他生命中已经翻过去的一章。
那是十二——十四——十五年以前了。他当时的选择是完全正确的！他当时的判断绝对没错！他曾经疯狂地爱着薇罗尼卡，但这仍然不够。薇罗尼卡可以轻而易举地将他拆吃入腹。她是一个彻头彻尾的自我主义者，而且她毫不讳言这一点！薇罗尼卡几乎得到了她想要的所有东西，但是她没能抓住约翰！他逃脱了。他想，以传统的观点来看，他确实没有善待她。说白了，就是他抛弃了她！但事实是，他想按自己的方式生活，而这正是薇罗尼卡所不能允许的。她想要按她的方式生活，并将约翰当作附属品纳入她的轨道。
当他拒绝和她一起去好莱坞的时候，她大惊失色。
她轻蔑地说：“如果你真的想当医生，我想你可以在那儿拿一个学位，但这是完全没必要的。你有足够的钱维持生活，而且我也会日进斗金的。”
他的反应十分激烈。
“但是我热爱我的职业。我将和拉德利一起工作。”
他的声音——一个年轻、充满热情的声音——中流露出敬畏的意味。
薇罗尼卡对此则嗤之以鼻。
“那个可笑的傲慢老头？”
“那个可笑的傲慢老头，”约翰生气地说，“对普拉特氏病做出了极有价值的研究工作——”
她打断了他：“谁又在意普拉特氏病呢？加利福尼亚有着极为怡人的气候，而且去看看世界也很有趣。”她又补充了一句：“我可不愿意没有你在身边。我要你，约翰——我需要你。”
而此时，他提出了一个令薇罗尼卡惊愕的建议，让她拒绝好莱坞的邀请，和他结婚，然后在伦敦定居。
她感到可笑，态度又十分坚决。她将去好莱坞，而且她爱约翰，约翰必须娶她，跟她一起去。她对自己的美貌和能力毫不怀疑。
他发觉只有一件事可以做，并这样做了。他写信给她，取消了婚约。
他曾为此饱受煎熬，但他对这个决定的正确性毫不怀疑。他回到伦敦，开始同拉德利一起工作。一年之后，他娶了格尔达，一个在各个方面都同薇罗尼卡毫无相似之处的女人……
门打开了，他的秘书，贝莉尔•柯林斯走了进来。
“您还得为福雷斯特夫人看病呢。”
他立即说：“我知道。”
“我还以为您也许忘了呢。”
她穿过屋子，从另一端的门出去了。克里斯托目送她冷静地离去。贝莉尔是一个相貌平平的女孩，但非常能干。她已经为他工作六年了，从未犯过一个错。她从不会忧心忡忡或是手忙脚乱。她有着一头黑色的头发，泥土色的皮肤和一个坚毅果敢的下巴。透过厚厚的镜片，她那清澈的灰色眼睛总是以冷静的态度观察着他，以及这世上的一切。
他本就想要一个相貌平平、不惹麻烦的女秘书，也得到了一个。但有时，约翰•克里斯托会完全不合逻辑地感到愤愤不平。按照所有戏剧和小说的规则，贝莉尔应当无望地深爱着她的雇主。但他一直明白，他对贝莉尔毫无吸引力。没有为爱奉献，没有自暴自弃——贝莉尔只将他看成是一个会犯错误的凡人。她从未为他的个性而倾倒，未被他的魅力所俘获。他有时甚至怀疑她是否喜欢他。
有一次，他曾听到她在电话里对一个朋友说：“不，我并不真正相信他其实比他表现出来的样子更自私。也许更多的只是不为他人着想，欠缺考虑。”
他知道她在谈论他。在接下来的二十四小时里，他一直为此而苦恼。
虽然格尔达那种盲目的热爱使他恼火，但贝莉尔那冷冰冰的评价也使他恼火。实际上，他想，几乎每件事都使我恼火……
一定有什么问题。工作过度？也许是。不，那只是借口。这种不断增长的不耐烦，这种易怒的厌倦情绪，一定有着某种更深层的意义。他想，这样不行，我不能再这样下去了。我到底怎么了？如果我能离开……
它又来了——那个莫名的想法又冒了出来，与那个极其明确的逃跑的念头交相呼应。
我想回家……
该死的，哈利街四〇四号就是我的家！
福雷斯特夫人正坐在候诊室里等候。一个乏味的女人，有着太多金钱和太多空闲时间来操心她那玉体上的微恙。
有人曾对他说：“你一定早就厌倦了那些成天幻想着自己有病的有钱人了。还是治疗穷人比较有满足感吧，他们只有在真的生病的时候才来！”他当时哈哈大笑。普罗大众对穷人们的印象还真是好笑。他们真应当见见那位皮尔斯托克老夫人，她每个星期都要看五个不同的门诊，买来各种瓶瓶罐罐的药剂。治疗背痛的止痛涂剂、治疗咳嗽的糖浆、轻泻剂和助消化的混合剂。“十四年来，我一直服用这种褐色的药，医生，只有这种药对我有效果，那个年轻的医生上个星期给我开了一种白色的药。一点儿效果都没有！这也很合乎情理，不是吗，医生？我的意思是，我吃褐色的药已经十四年了，如果我不用这种液体石蜡和那些褐色的药丸的话……”
他到现在还能听到那抱怨的声音。体格健壮，声如洪钟，即使吃下所有的药，也不可能对她有任何真正损害！
托特汉姆郡的皮尔斯托克夫人和帕克巷宅第的福雷斯特夫人，她们在本质上其实是完全一样的。你听她们的倾诉，用钢笔在纸上写下医嘱，区别无非是在昂贵的硬版便笺上，或是医院的病历卡上而已。
上帝，他对这一切真是厌倦透顶……
蓝色的海水、淡淡的含羞草的清香、酷热的尘土……那是十五年以前。所有的一切都已经过去了，结束了——是的，结束了，感谢上帝。
他当时能够有勇气结束所有的一切。
勇气？内心深处的某个声音说道。你们是这样称呼这种东西的？
不管怎么样，他做了件明智的事，不是吗？那虽然非常痛苦。该死的，那件事曾像炼狱一样折磨着他！但他熬了过来，切断了过往，回到家中，并娶了格尔达。
他找了一个平凡普通的秘书，娶了一个平凡普通的老婆。这就是他想要的东西，难道不是吗？他已经受够了美人，难道不是吗？他亲眼见识过像薇罗尼卡那样的女人利用自己的美貌能达到怎样的效果——对她的魅力所能及的范围内的每一个男人所起的作用。在经历了薇罗尼卡之后，他只想要安全。安全、平和、忠诚，以及生命中那些宁静而持久的东西。他想要的，实际上就是格尔达！他曾想要在生活中对他言听计从，完全接受他的决定，在任何时刻都不会拥有自己想法的女人……
是谁曾经说过，人生真正的悲剧正是在于得到你所想要的一切？
他生气地按响了桌上的蜂鸣器。
他为福雷斯特夫人看了病。
他花了一刻钟打发走了福雷斯特夫人。这钱挣得同样轻而易举。他仍然只是倾听、问问题，消除病人的疑虑，表达出同情之意，注入治疗的能量。他又一次开了一种昂贵的特许专卖药。
那个拖着脚步进来的、神经过敏、病病歪歪的女人，迈着坚定的步子离开了。她的双颊恢复了血色，感觉到生活也许最终还是值得过下去的。
约翰•克里斯托重新靠回椅背上。他现在自由了——可以上楼去，和格尔达以及孩子们待在一起——可以远离疾病和痛苦，自由地度过整个周末。
但他依然有那种不愿离开的奇怪感觉，那种第一次感觉到的难以理喻的精神上的疲乏。
他太累了——太累了——太累了。
Four
Four
In the dining room of the flat above the consulting room Gerda Christow was staring at a joint ofmutton.
Should she or should she not send it back to the kitchen to be kept warm?
If John was going to be much longer it would be cold—congealed, and that would be dreadful.
But on the other hand the last patient had gone, John would be up in a moment, if she sent itback there would be delay—John was so impatient. “But surely you knew I was just coming…”
There would be that tone of suppressed exasperation in his voice that she knew and dreaded.
Besides, it would get overcooked, dried up—John hated overcooked meat.
But on the other hand he disliked cold food very much indeed.
At any rate the dish was nice and hot.
Her mind oscillated to and fro, and her sense of misery and anxiety deepened.
The whole world had shrunk to a leg of mutton getting cold on a dish.
On the other side of the table her son Terence, aged twelve, said:
“Boracic salts burn with a green flame, sodium salts are yellow.”
Gerda looked distractedly across the table at his square, freckled face. She had no idea what hewas talking about.
“Did you know that, Mother?”
“Know what, dear?”
“About salts.”
Gerda’s eye flew distractedly to the salt cellar. Yes, salt and pepper were on the table. That wasall right. Last week Lewis had forgotten them and that had annoyed John. There was alwayssomething….
“It’s one of the chemical tests,” said Terence in a dreamy voice. “Jolly interesting. I think.”
Zena, aged nine, with a pretty, vacuous face, whimpered:
“I want my dinner. Can’t we start, Mother?”
“In a minute, dear, we must wait for Father.”
“We could start,” said Terence. “Father wouldn’t mind. You know how fast he eats.”
Gerda shook her head.
Carve the mutton? But she never could remember which was the right side to plunge the knifein. Of course, perhaps Lewis had put it the right way on the dish—but sometimes she didn’t—andJohn was always annoyed if it was done the wrong way. And, Gerda reflected desperately, italways was the wrong way when she did it. Oh, dear, how cold the gravy was getting—a skin wasforming on the top of it—and surely he would be coming now.
Her mind went round and round unhappily…like a trapped animal.
Sitting back in his consulting room chair, tapping with one hand on the table in front of him,conscious that upstairs lunch must be ready, John Christow was nevertheless unable to forcehimself to get up.
San Miguel…blue sea…smell of mimosa…a scarlet tritoma upright against green leaves…thehot sun…the dust…that desperation of love and suffering….
He thought: “Oh, God, not that. Never that again! That’s over….”
He wished suddenly that he had never known Veronica, never married Gerda, never metHenrietta….
Mrs. Crabtree, he thought, was worth the lot of them. That had been a bad afternoon last week.
He’d been so pleased with the reactions. She could stand .005 by now. And then had come thatalarming rise in toxicity and the DL reaction had been negative instead of positive.
The old bean had lain there, blue, gasping for breath — peering up at him with malicious,indomitable eyes.
“Making a bit of a guinea pig out of me, ain’t you, dearie? Experimenting—that kinder thing.”
“We want to get you well,” he had said, smiling down at her.
“Up to your tricks, yer mean!” She had grinned suddenly. “I don’t mind, bless yer. You carryon, Doctor! Someone’s got to be first, that’s it, ain’t it? ’Ad me ’air permed, I did, when I was akid. It wasn’t ’alf a difficult business then. Looked like a nigger, I did. Couldn’t get a combthrough it. But there—I enjoyed the fun. You can ’ave yer fun with me. I can stand it.”
“Feel pretty bad, don’t you?” His hand was on her pulse. Vitality passed from him to thepanting old woman on the bed.
“Orful, I feel. You’re about right! ’Asn’t gone according to plan—that’s it, isn’t it? Never youmind. Don’t you lose ’eart. I can stand a lot, I can!”
John Christow said appreciatively:
“You’re fine. I wish all my patients were like you.”
“I wanter get well—that’s why! I wanter get well. Mum, she lived to be eighty-eight—and oldGrandma was ninety when she popped off. We’re long-livers in our family, we are.”
He had come away miserable, racked with doubt and uncertainty. He’d been so sure he was onthe right track. Where had he gone wrong? How diminish the toxicity and keep up the hormonecontent and at the same time neutralize the pantratin?….
He’d been too cocksure—he’d taken it for granted that he’d circumvented all the snags.
And it was then, on the steps of St. Christopher’s, that a sudden desperate weariness hadovercome him—a hatred of all this long, slow, wearisome clinical work, and he’d thought ofHenrietta, thought of her suddenly not as herself, but of her beauty and her freshness, her healthand her radiant vitality—and the faint smell of primroses that clung about her hair.
And he had gone to Henrietta straight away, sending a curt telephone message home aboutbeing called away. He had strode into the studio and taken Henrietta in his arms, holding her tohim with a fierceness that was new in their relationship.
There had been a quick, startled wonder in her eyes. She had freed herself from his arms andhad made him coffee. And as she moved about the studio she had thrown out desultory questions.
Had he come, she asked, straight from the hospital?
He didn’t want to talk about the hospital. He wanted to make love to Henrietta and forget thatthe hospital and Mrs. Crabtree and Ridgeway’s Disease and all the rest of the caboodle existed.
But, at first unwillingly, then more fluently, he answered her questions. And presently he wasstriding up and down, pouring out a spate of technical explanations and surmises. Once or twice hepaused, trying to simplify—to explain:
“You see, you have to get a reaction—”
Henrietta said quickly:
“Yes, yes, the DL reaction has to be positive. I understand that. Go on.”
He said sharply, “How do you know about the DL reaction?”
“I got a book—”
“What book? Whose?”
She motioned towards the small book table. He snorted.
“Scobell? Scobell’s no good. He’s fundamentally unsound. Look here, if you want to read—don’t—”
She interrupted him.
“I only want to understand some of the terms you use—enough so as to understand you withoutmaking you stop to explain everything the whole time. Go on. I’m following you all right.”
“Well,” he said doubtfully, “remember Scobell’s unsound.” He went on talking. He talked fortwo hours and a half. Reviewing the setbacks, analysing the possibilities, outlining possibletheories. He was hardly conscious of Henrietta’s presence. And yet, more than once, as hehesitated, her quick intelligence took him a step on the way, seeing, almost before he did, what hewas hesitating to advance. He was interested now, and his belief in himself was creeping back. Hehad been right—the main theory was correct—and there were ways, more ways than one, ofcombating the toxic symptoms.
And then, suddenly, he was tired out. He’d got it all clear now. He’d get on to it tomorrowmorning. He’d ring up Neill, tell him to combine the two solutions and try that. Yes, try that. ByGod, he wasn’t going to be beaten!
“I’m tired,” he said abruptly. “My God, I’m tired.”
And he had flung himself down and slept—slept like the dead.
He had awoken to find Henrietta smiling at him in the morning light and making tea and he hadsmiled back at her.
“Not at all according to plan,” he said.
“Does it matter?”
“No. No. You are rather a nice person, Henrietta.” His eye went to the bookcase. “If you’reinterested in this sort of thing, I’ll get you the proper stuff to read.”
“I’m not interested in this sort of thing. I’m interested in you, John.”
“You can’t read Scobell.” He took up the offending volume. “The man’s a charlatan.”
And she had laughed. He could not understand why his strictures on Scobell amused her so.
But that was what, every now and then, startled him about Henrietta. The sudden revelation,disconcerting to him, that she was able to laugh at him.
He wasn’t used to it. Gerda took him in deadly earnest. And Veronica had never thought aboutanything but herself. But Henrietta had a trick of throwing her head back, of looking at himthrough half-closed eyes, with a sudden tender half-mocking little smile, as though she weresaying: “Let me have a good look at this funny person called John…Let me get a long way awayand look at him….”
It was, he thought, very much the same as the way she screwed up her eyes to look at her work—or a picture. It was—damn it all—it was detached. He didn’t want Henrietta to be detached. Hewanted Henrietta to think only of him, never to let her mind stray away from him.
(“Just what you object to in Gerda, in fact,” said his private imp, bobbing up again.)The truth of it was that he was completely illogical. He didn’t know what he wanted.
(“I want to go home.” What an absurd, what a ridiculous phrase. It didn’t mean anything.)In an hour or so at any rate he’d be driving out of London—forgetting about sick people withtheir faint sour “wrong” smell…sniffing wood smoke and pines and soft wet autumn leaves…Thevery motion of the car would be soothing—that smooth, effortless increase of speed.
But it wouldn’t, he reflected suddenly, be at all like that because owing to a slightly strainedwrist, Gerda would have to drive, and Gerda, God help her, had never been able to begin to drive acar! Every time she changed gear he would be silent, grinding his teeth together, managing not tosay anything because he knew, by bitter experience, that when he did say anything Gerda becameimmediately worse. Curious that no one had ever been able to teach Gerda to change gear—noteven Henrietta. He’d turned her over to Henrietta, thinking that Henrietta’s enthusiasm might dobetter than his own irritability.
For Henrietta loved cars. She spoke of cars with the lyrical intensity that other people gave tospring, or the first snowdrop.
“Isn’t he a beauty, John? Doesn’t he just purr along?” (For Henrietta’s cars were alwaysmasculine.) “He’ll do Bale Hill in third—not straining at all—quite effortlessly. Listen to the evenway he ticks over.”
Until he had burst out suddenly and furiously:
“Don’t you think, Henrietta, you could pay some attention to me and forget the damned car for aminute or two!”
He was always ashamed of these outbursts.
He never knew when they would come upon him out of a blue sky.
It was the same thing over her work. He realized that her work was good. He admired it—andhated it—at the same time.
The most furious quarrel he had had with her had arisen over that.
Gerda had said to him one day:
“Henrietta has asked me to sit for her.”
“What?” His astonishment had not, if he came to think of it, been flattering. “You?”
“Yes, I’m going over to the studio tomorrow.”
“What on earth does she want you for?”
Yes, he hadn’t been very polite about it. But luckily Gerda hadn’t realized that fact. She hadlooked pleased about it. He suspected Henrietta of one of those insincere kindnesses of hers—Gerda, perhaps, had hinted that she would like to be modelled. Something of that kind.
Then, about ten days later, Gerda had shown him triumphantly a small plaster statuette.
It was a pretty thing—technically skillful like all Henrietta’s work. It idealized Gerda—andGerda herself was clearly pleased about it.
“I really think it’s rather charming, John.”
“Is that Henrietta’s work? It means nothing—nothing at all. I don’t see how she came to do athing like that.”
“It’s different, of course, from her abstract work—but I think it’s good, John, I really do.”
He had said no more — after all, he didn’t want to spoil Gerda’s pleasure. But he tackledHenrietta about it at the first opportunity.
“What did you want to make that silly thing of Gerda for? It’s unworthy of you. After all, youusually turn out decent stuff.”
Henrietta said slowly:
“I didn’t think it was bad. Gerda seemed quite pleased.”
“Gerda was delighted. She would be. Gerda doesn’t know art from a coloured photograph.”
“It wasn’t bad art, John. It was just a portrait statuette — quite harmless and not at allpretentious.”
“You don’t usually waste your time doing that kind of stuff—”
He broke off, staring at a wooden figure about five feet high.
“Hallo, what’s this?”
“It’s for the International Group. Pearwood. The Worshipper.”
She watched him. He stared and then — suddenly, his neck swelled and he turned on herfuriously.
“So that’s what you wanted Gerda for? How dare you?”
“I wondered if you’d see….”
“See it? Of course I see it. It’s here.” He placed a finger on the broad heavy neck muscles.
Henrietta nodded.
“Yes, it’s the neck and shoulders I wanted—and that heavy forward slant—the submission—that bowed look. It’s wonderful!”
“Wonderful? Look here, Henrietta, I won’t have it. You’re to leave Gerda alone.”
“Gerda won’t know. Nobody will know. You know Gerda would never recognize herself here—nobody else would either. And it isn’t Gerda. It isn’t anybody.”
“I recognized it, didn’t I?”
“You’re different, John. You—see things.”
“It’s the damned cheek of it! I won’t have it, Henrietta! I won’t have it. Can’t you see that it wasan indefensible thing to do?”
“Was it?”
“Don’t you know it was? Can’t you feel it was? Where’s your usual sensitiveness?”
Henrietta said slowly:
“You don’t understand, John. I don’t think I could ever make you understand…You don’t knowwhat it is to want something—to look at it day after day—that line of the neck—those muscles—the angle where the head goes forward—that heaviness round the jaw. I’ve been looking at them,wanting them—every time I saw Gerda…In the end I just had to have them!”
“Unscrupulous!”
“Yes, I suppose just that. But when you want things, in that way, you just have to take them.”
“You mean you don’t care a damn about anybody else. You don’t care about Gerda—”
“Don’t be stupid, John. That’s why I made that statuette thing. To please Gerda and make herhappy. I’m not inhuman!”
“Inhuman is exactly what you are.”
“Do you think—honestly—that Gerda would ever recognize herself in this?”
John looked at it unwillingly. For the first time his anger and resentment became subordinatedto his interest. A strange submissive figure, a figure offering up worship to an unseen deity—theface raised—blind, dumb, devoted—terribly strong, terribly fanatical…He said:
“That’s rather a terrifying thing that you have made, Henrietta!”
Henrietta shivered slightly.
She said, “Yes—I thought that….”
John said sharply:
“What’s she looking at—who is it? There in front of her?”
Henrietta hesitated. She said, and her voice had a queer note in it:
“I don’t know. But I think—she might be looking at you, John.”
第四章
第四章
诊室楼上那套住房的餐厅里，格尔达•克里斯托正凝视着一盘羊腿肉。
她到底应不应该把它送回厨房去热热呢？
如果约翰还要耽搁很久，这盘肉就要冷掉了——结冻可就糟透了。
但最后一个病人已经走了，约翰可能很快就会上来，如果她把它送回厨房的话，午饭就得推迟了——而约翰是那么的不耐烦。“但你明明知道我就要上来了……”他的声音里将会流露出强压住的愤怒，她熟悉并且害怕这一点。何况，羊肉再热以后就老了，肉会变干——约翰非常厌恶煮老了的肉。
但另一方面，他又非常讨厌冷掉了的食物。
不管怎样，这道菜都应恰到好处，热气腾腾。
她前思后想，拿不定主意，那种悲惨和焦虑感不断加深。
整个世界都浓缩成了一盘正在慢慢冷却的羊腿肉。
在桌子的另一边，她的儿子，十二岁的特伦斯正说着：“硼盐燃烧产生的火焰是绿色的，而钠盐的火焰则是黄色的。”
格尔达心不在焉地看着餐桌对面他那张方正的、布满雀斑的小脸。她完全不知道他在说什么。
“你知道吗，妈妈？”
“知道什么，亲爱的？”
“关于盐类。”
格尔达心烦意乱地瞟向盐罐。是的，盐和胡椒粉都在桌上。这样很好。上个星期刘易斯忘了放，结果惹恼了约翰。总有点儿什么事……
“这是一个化学实验，”特伦斯用一种愉快的语气回答，“我觉得非常有趣。”
九岁的齐娜长着一张漂亮而茫然的面孔，她带着哭意问道：“我想吃饭。我们不能先吃吗，妈妈？”
“稍等一会儿，亲爱的，我们必须等你父亲。”
“我们可以先吃的，”特伦斯说，“父亲不会介意的，你知道他吃得有多快。”
格尔达摇了摇头。
要先把羊肉切开吗？但她从来都不记得该从哪边下刀。当然，也许刘易斯已经把肉放在了一个方便切的角度上——但有的时候她也没那么仔细——而如果有任何事情出了错，约翰总会很恼火。而且，格尔达绝望地想到，每次她切的时候，总会切错。哦，天哪，肉汁已经变得那么凉了——上面已经结了一层膜——而他肯定现在就要回来了。
她的心思苦恼地转了一圈又一圈……像一只困兽。
约翰•克里斯托仍然坐在诊室的椅子里，一只手在他面前的桌子上轻轻敲击。他知道楼上的午餐肯定已经准备好了，但他依然无法强迫自己站起身来。
圣•米格尔……蓝色的海水……含羞草的香气……笔直的鲜红的火把莲依傍着绿叶……酷热的阳光……尘土……那种爱和煎熬的绝望……
他想，哦，上帝，别想那些了。再也别想那些了！那一切都已经结束了……他突然希望自己从未认识过薇罗尼卡，从未与格尔达结婚，从未遇到过亨莉埃塔……克雷布特里太太，他想，比她们加在一起都强。上星期有一个下午，情况非常糟糕。
他原本非常满意于她对药物的反应——她已经能够承受千分之五的剂量了——但她体内的毒性含量突然急升，而她的致死剂量反应也从阴性转为了阳性。
那位可爱的老太太躺在病床上，脸色发蓝，艰难地喘息着——用她那不怀好意、坚定不移的目光疑视着他。
“拿我当小白鼠了，是吗，亲爱的？拿我做试验什么的。”
“我们想让你好起来。”他说着，低头朝她微笑。
“忙着玩你的把戏吧，你这个卑鄙的家伙！”她突然咧嘴笑了，“我不介意，上帝保佑你。你继续吧，医生！总得有人成为第一个，事情本来不就是这样吗？当我还是个小孩子的时候，编过一头麻花辫子。在那时候这么弄可不容易。我看上去活像一个黑鬼，梳子都梳不下去。但话又说回来——我很享受那种乐趣。你可以尽情地在我身上做试验，我能忍受得住。”
“感觉很糟，是吧？”他伸手搭着她的脉搏，将生命力传输到了躺在床上喘息着的老妇人体内。
“感觉糟透啦。你说得还真没错！跟预想的不一样了——出问题了，是吧？你别担心，也千万别灰心。我还能承受很多，我能的！”
约翰•克里斯托赞赏地说：“你没事的。我真希望我所有的病人都像你一样。”
“我想好起来——就是这样！我想要好起来。我妈妈活到了八十八岁——老外婆死的时候也已经九十岁了。我们家族的人都活得久着呢。”
他离开的时候心情非常沉重，心中充满了困惑和怀疑。他曾那么确信自己采用的方法是对的。到底是哪儿出了错呢？如何才能清除毒素，保持荷尔蒙的含量，同时又能中和掉药剂呢？
他过于自负了——他曾想当然地认为他已经避开了所有的障碍。
就在那时，走在圣•克里斯托弗医院的楼梯上，一阵突然涌上的绝望的倦怠感压倒了他——对这种冗长、缓慢而沉闷的门诊工作的深深的憎恶。同时，他突然想起了亨莉埃塔，但并不是她这个人本身，而是她的美貌、她的清新、她的健康，和她那光芒四射的活力——还有她的头发中散发出的那种淡淡的樱草花香。
他径直去找亨莉埃塔，只给家里打了一个简短的电话，说有事需要处理。他大步走进工作室，把亨莉埃塔拥进怀中，用一种在他们的关系之中从未出现过的激情紧紧地抱住她。
她的眼中迅速闪过了一丝惊惧的疑惑。她从他的臂膀中挣脱出来，为他煮了一壶咖啡。她一边在工作室里来回走动，一边随口问了几个问题。你是从医院直接过来的吗，她问。
他不想谈论医院的事。他只想同亨莉埃塔做爱，忘掉医院，忘掉克雷布特里太太，忘掉里奇微氏病，以及其他所有的一切。
尽管起初他并不情愿回答她的问题，但说着说着就变得滔滔不绝起来。他在屋里大踏步地走来走去，口若悬河地说了一大堆关于专业上的演绎和猜测。有一两次他停下来，试着进行简化——解释：
“你知道，你必须获得对药品的反应——”
亨莉埃塔迅速地回答：“是的，是的，致死剂量反应一定呈阳性。这些我懂，继续吧。”
他尖锐地问：“你怎么会知道致死剂量反应？”
“我有一本书——”
“什么书？谁写的？”
她指了指那张小书桌。他不屑地哼了一声。
“斯科贝尔？斯科贝尔不怎么样。他从根本上就是靠不住的。真的，如果你想读点书的话——不要——”
她打断了他的话。
“我只是想了解一些你所用的术语——只需要理解你所说的话，而不用你总停下来解释就足够了。继续吧。我能跟得上你所说的东西。”
“那么，”他怀疑地说，“记住，斯科贝尔的书不正确。”他继续说了起来，一口气讲了两个半小时。回顾所遭遇到的挫折，分析各种可能性，罗列出合理的理论。他几乎没有意识到亨莉埃塔的存在，然而，不只一次，当他说到犹豫之处时，她便以她那机敏的智慧帮助他往前走一步。她几乎能够在他自己意识到之前，就看清他犹豫的是什么。他现在又有了兴趣，而且自信悄悄地恢复了。他原先就是正确的——主要的理论是对的——确实有不止一种方法来对抗中毒症状。
接着，他突然感到疲惫不堪。他现在已经都想清楚了，明天一早就会着手治疗。他会打电话给尼尔，让他把两种药剂混合在一起试试。是的，试试。看在上帝的分上，他是不会失败的！
“我累了，”他唐突地说，“我的上帝啊，我累极了。”
然后他倒在床上，睡着了——睡得就像死人一样。
他醒来时，看见亨莉埃塔正在晨曦中对着他微笑，并为他泡茶。他冲着她笑了一下。
“和计划的一点儿都不一样。”他说。
“这很重要吗？”
“不，不重要，你真是个好人，亨莉埃塔。”他的目光转向书架，“如果你对这些事情感兴趣，我给你一些好书读一读。”
“我对这些事并不感兴趣，我感兴趣的只是你，约翰。”
“你不能读斯科贝尔的书。”他拿起那本令人不快的书，“这家伙只不过是个冒牌货。”
她大笑起来。他不能理解为什么他对斯科贝尔的指责会使她觉得如此有趣。
但那也是亨莉埃塔时不时会使他感到惊讶的地方。他突然发现，她能够嘲笑他，这一发现使他感到难堪。
他对此很不习惯。格尔达对他只有一片至忠至诚的热心，而薇罗尼卡则是除了她自己之外，从不关心任何事。但亨莉埃塔却会使那么一个小把戏，头往后仰起，半眯着眼看着他，脸上带着一点点突然而温柔的、半嘲讽意味的微笑，好像在说：“让我好好看看这个可笑的名叫约翰的人……让我拉远了距离再看看他……”
他想，这就同她半眯起眼睛打量她的作品——或者一幅画时一模一样。那是——见鬼！——那是一种无动于衷的态度。他想让亨莉埃塔只想着他一个人，永远不让她的思想游离于他之外。
（“实际上，这正是你讨厌格尔达的特点。”他内心的小恶魔又一次跳出来说道。）事实是，这完全不合逻辑。他不知道自己想要的是什么。
（“我想回家。”多么荒谬，多么可笑的一句话。它完全没有任何意义。）无论如何，再过一个来小时，他就将开车驶离伦敦——忘记那些带着淡淡的酸臭气味的病人……呼吸着木柴燃烧的青烟、松树，以及柔软湿润的秋叶气息……一想到汽车的运行，就能令人心神舒畅——那种平稳而轻松的加速感。
但他突然想起，事情完全不会是那样的，由于他的手腕轻微扭伤，将不得不由格尔达来开车。而格尔达，愿上帝保佑她，完全不会开车！每次她换挡的时候，他都必须咬紧牙关，努力让自己不要开口说话。因为从过往痛苦的经验中他了解到，只要他一说话，格尔达的状况立刻就会变糟。真奇怪，没人能够教会格尔达如何换挡——甚至亨莉埃塔也不行。他曾请亨莉埃塔帮忙教她，希望亨莉埃塔的热情也许会比他易怒的脾气更容易起些作用。
亨莉埃塔极爱车。她一谈到车，总是带着一种强烈的热情，就好像别人谈论起春天或初雪一样。
“他难道不是个帅小伙吗，约翰？瞧他的引擎一路轰鸣的样子。”（对亨莉埃塔而言，车总是男性的。）“他用三挡就能爬上贝尔山——一点儿也不费劲——相当轻而易举。听，他空挡慢转得多么均匀。”
直到他突然猛烈地爆发。
“亨莉埃塔，能不能请你稍微多注意我一些，暂时忘掉那些该死的车一小会儿啊！”
他总是对自己的这种突然爆发感到羞愧。
他不知道它们会在什么时候毫无缘由地发生。
对她的作品也是一样。他意识到她的作品是很出色的。他非常喜爱她的作品——同时又痛恨它们。
他和她最激烈的一次争吵就是因为这一点。
有一天格尔达对他说：“亨莉埃塔邀请我去做模特。”
“什么？”仔细想来，他的震惊至今还没有平息，“你？”
“是的，我明天就去工作室。”
“她究竟为什么要请你？”
是的，他当时非常不礼貌。但幸运的是，格尔达没有意识到这一点。她看上去对此十分高兴。他怀疑亨莉埃塔像往常一样，并非出于真心，只是好意相邀——也许是因为格尔达曾暗示过她希望能被塑成雕像，诸如此类的事情。
接着，大约十天后，格尔达兴高采烈地向他展示一尊小石膏像。
那件作品十分可爱——技巧相当娴熟，就像亨莉埃塔所有的作品一样。作品对格尔达进行了美化——格尔达显然对此非常满意。
“我认为它太迷人了，约翰。”
“那是亨莉埃塔的作品吗？它毫无意义——完全没有。我不明白她为什么会做这么个玩意儿。”
“当然，这与她那些抽象的作品不同——但是我认为它很好，约翰，真的。”
他没有再说话——毕竟，他不想毁掉格尔达的欢乐。但他此后一有机会遇到亨莉埃塔，就向她质问此事。
“你到底为什么要为格尔达塑那个愚蠢的雕像？你这么做完全不值得。毕竟，你通常创作的都还是些像样的东西。”
亨莉埃塔慢慢地说：“我并不认为它有多糟糕，格尔达看起来十分满意。”
“格尔达是很高兴，那是当然的。她根本就不懂艺术。”
“那并不是件糟糕的艺术品，约翰。它只不过是一座小肖像——没有任何害处，也毫无矫饰之意。”
“你平时并不会经常浪费时间做这种东西——”
他戛然而止，死死盯着一座大约五英尺高的木雕人像。
“喂，这是什么？”
“这是为国际联合展而创作的，梨木的，名叫‘崇拜者’。”
她望着他。他紧紧地盯着它看，接着——突然地，他的脖子上青筋暴起，狂怒地质问她。
“这么说，这就是你邀请格尔达的原因了？你好大的胆子！”
“我一开始还不能肯定你是否能看出……”
“看出来？当然能看出来啦。就是这里。”他将一根指头点在了那宽阔粗厚的颈部肌肉上。
亨莉埃塔点点头。
“是的，这就是我想要的颈部和肩膀——还有那厚重前倾的斜面——那种屈从感——那恭顺的目光。出色极了！”
“出色？你听着，亨莉埃塔，我不能接受这种事。你给我离格尔达远点儿。”
“格尔达不会知道的。没有人会知道。你很清楚，格尔达绝不会从这件作品中认出自己——别人也不会的。况且这也并不是格尔达，这不是任何人。”
“我认出来了，不是吗？”
“你不同，约翰。你——能够洞察事物。”
“这是她该死的颈部！我无法接受，亨莉埃塔！我决不能接受。你难道不明白吗？这是完全不可原谅的。”
“是吗？”
“你难道不知道吗？难道你感觉不到吗？你那平常所具有的敏感到哪儿去了？”
亨莉埃塔缓慢地说：“你不明白，约翰。我想也许我也无法使你明白……你不了解渴望某种东西是什么样的感觉——日复一日地看着它——那颈部的线条——那些肌肉——头部向前倾的角度——下巴周围的沉重感。我曾那么看着它们，渴望着它们——每次我看到格尔达……归根到底，我必须拥有它们！”
“可耻！”
“是的，我想是这样的。但当你那样渴望某些东西的时候，你就必须得到它们。”
“你的意思是你一点儿也不在乎别人。你不在乎格尔达——”
“别傻了，约翰。那就是我要塑那座小肖像的原因。用来取悦格尔达，使她高兴。我不是没有人性的！”
“你恰恰就是没有人性。”
“你真的认为——坦白地说——格尔达会从这座雕像中认出自己吗？”
约翰不情不愿地看着它。生平第一次，他的怒火与怨恨让位于他的兴趣了。一座奇怪的谦顺的肖像，向看不见的神祉奉献出自己的崇拜——脸扬起——茫然，麻木，全心奉献——极为强大，极为狂热……他说：“你创作的是一件相当可怕的东西，亨莉埃塔！”
亨莉埃塔微微颤抖着。
她说：“是的——我原本以为……”
约翰尖锐地问：“她在看什么——看着谁？她前面的人是谁？”
亨莉埃塔迟疑了一下。她的声音中有一种古怪的语气。
“我不知道。但我认为——她看着的一定是你，约翰。”
Five（1）
Five
I
In the dining room the child Terry made another scientific statement.
“Lead salts are more soluble in cold water than hot. If you add potassium iodide you get ayellow precipitate of lead iodide.”
He looked expectantly at his mother but without any real hope. Parents, in the opinion of youngTerence, were sadly disappointing.
“Did you know that, Mother—”
“I don’t know anything about chemistry, dear.”
“You could read about it in a book,” said Terence.
It was a simple statement of fact, but there was a certain wistfulness behind it.
Gerda did not hear the wistfulness. She was caught in the trap of her anxious misery. Round andround and round. She had been miserable ever since she woke up this morning and realized that atlast this long-dreaded weekend with the Angkatells was upon her. Staying at The Hollow wasalways a nightmare to her. She always felt bewildered and forlorn. Lucy Angkatell with hersentences that were never finished, her swift inconsequences, and her obvious attempts atkindliness, was the figure she dreaded most. But the others were nearly as bad. For Gerda it wastwo days of sheer martyrdom—to be endured for John’s sake.
For John that morning as he stretched himself had remarked in tones of unmitigated pleasure:
“Splendid to think we’ll be getting into the country this weekend. It will do you good, Gerda,just what you need.”
She had smiled mechanically and had said with unselfish fortitude: “It will be delightful.”
Her unhappy eyes had wandered round the bedroom. The wallpaper, cream striped with a blackmark just by the wardrobe, the mahogany dressing table with the glass that swung too far forward,the cheerful bright blue carpet, the watercolours of the Lake District. All dear familiar things andshe would not see them again until Monday.
Instead, tomorrow a housemaid who rustled would come into the strange bedroom and putdown a little dainty tray of early tea by the bed and pull up the blinds, and would then rearrangeand fold Gerda’s clothes—a thing which made Gerda feel hot and uncomfortable all over. Shewould lie miserably, enduring these things, trying to comfort herself by thinking, “Only onemorning more.” Like being at school and counting the days.
Gerda had not been happy at school. At school there had been even less reassurance thanelsewhere. Home had been better. But even home had not been very good. For they had all, ofcourse, been quicker and cleverer than she was. Their comments, quick, impatient, not quiteunkind, had whistled about her ears like a hailstorm. “Oh, do be quick, Gerda.” “Butterfingers,give it to me!” “Oh don’t let Gerda do it, she’ll be ages.” “Gerda never takes in anything….”
Hadn’t they seen, all of them, that that was the way to make her slower and stupider still? She’dgot worse and worse, more clumsy with her fingers, more slow-witted, more inclined to starevacantly at what was said to her.
Until, suddenly, she had reached the point where she had found a way out. Almost accidentally,really, she found her weapon of defence.
She had grown slower still, her puzzled stare had become even blanker. But now, when theysaid impatiently: “Oh, Gerda, how stupid you are, don’t you understand that?” she had been able,behind her blank expression, to hug herself a little in her secret knowledge…For she wasn’t asstupid as they thought. Often, when she pretended not to understand, she did understand. Andoften, deliberately, she slowed down in her task of whatever it was, smiling to herself whensomeone’s impatient fingers snatched it away from her.
For, warm and delightful, was a secret knowledge of superiority. She began to be, quite often, alittle amused. Yes, it was amusing to know more than they thought you knew. To be able to do athing, but not let anybody know that you could do it.
And it had the advantage, suddenly discovered, that people often did things for you. That, ofcourse, saved you a lot of trouble. And, in the end, if people got into the habit of doing things foryou, you didn’t have to do them at all, and then people didn’t know that you did them badly. Andso, slowly, you came round again almost to where you started. To feeling that you could hold yourown on equal terms with the world at large.
(But that wouldn’t, Gerda feared, hold good with the Angkatells; the Angkatells were always sofar ahead that you didn’t feel even in the same street with them. How she hated the Angkatells! Itwas good for John—John liked it there. He came home less tired—and sometimes less irritable.)Dear John, she thought. John was wonderful. Everyone thought so. Such a clever doctor, soterribly kind to his patients. Wearing himself out—and the interest he took in his hospital patients—all that side of his work that didn’t pay at all. John was so disinterested—so truly noble.
She had always known, from the very first, that John was brilliant and was going to get to thetop of the tree. And he had chosen her, when he might have married somebody far more brilliant.
He had not minded her being slow and rather stupid and not very pretty. “I’ll look after you,” hehad said. Nicely, rather masterfully. “Don’t worry about things, Gerda, I’ll take care of you….”
Just what a man ought to be. Wonderful to think John should have chosen her.
He had said with that sudden, very attractive, half-pleading smile of his: “I like my own way,you know, Gerda.”
Well, that was all right. She had always tried to give in to him in everything. Even lately whenhe had been so difficult and nervy—when nothing seemed to please him. When, somehow, nothingshe did was right. One couldn’t blame him. He was so busy, so unselfish—Oh, dear, that mutton! She ought to have sent it back. Still no sign of John. Why couldn’t she,sometimes, decide right? Again those dark waves of misery swept over her. The mutton! Thisawful weekend with the Angkatells. She felt a sharp pain through both temples. Oh, dear, now shewas going to have one of her headaches. And it did so annoy John when she had headaches. Henever would give her anything for them, when surely it would be so easy, being a doctor. Insteadhe always said: “Don’t think about it. No use poisoning yourself with drugs. Take a brisk walk.”
The mutton! Staring at it, Gerda felt the words repeating themselves in her aching head, “Themutton, the MUTTON, THE MUTTON….”
Tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. “Why,” she thought, “does nothing ever go right for me?”
Terence looked across at the table at his mother and then at the joint. He thought: “Why can’twe have our dinner? How stupid grown-up people are. They haven’t any sense!”
Aloud he said in a careful voice:
“Nicholson Minor and I are going to make nitroglycerine in his father’s shrubbery. They live atStreatham.”
“Are you, dear? That will be very nice,” said Gerda.
There was still time. If she rang the bell and told Lewis to take the joint down now—Terence looked at her with faint curiosity. He had felt instinctively that the manufacture ofnitroglycerine was not the kind of occupation that would be encouraged by parents. With baseopportunism he had selected a moment when he felt tolerably certain that he had a good chance ofgetting away with his statement. And his judgement had been justified. If, by any chance, thereshould be a fuss—if, that is, the properties of nitroglycerine should manifest themselves tooevidently, he would be able to say in an injured voice, “I told Mother.”
All the same, he felt vaguely disappointed.
“Even Mother,” he thought, “ought to know about nitroglycerine.”
He sighed. There swept over him that intense sense of loneliness that only childhood can feel.
His father was too impatient to listen, his mother was too inattentive. Zena was only a silly kid.
Pages of interesting chemical tests. And who cared about them? Nobody!
Bang! Gerda started. It was the door of John’s consulting room. It was John running upstairs.
John Christow burst into the room, bringing with him his own particular atmosphere of intenseenergy. He was good-humoured, hungry, impatient.
“God,” he exclaimed as he sat down and energetically sharpened the carving knife against thesteel. “How I hate sick people!”
“Oh, John.” Gerda was quickly reproachful. “Don’t say things like that. They’ll think you meanit.”
She gestured slightly with her head towards the children.
“I do mean it,” said John Christow. “Nobody ought to be ill.”
“Father’s joking,” said Gerda quickly to Terence.
Terence examined his father with the dispassionate attention he gave to everything.
“I don’t think he is,” he said.
“If you hated sick people, you wouldn’t be a doctor, dear,” said Gerda, laughing gently.
“That’s exactly the reason,” said John Christow. “No doctors like sickness. Good God, thismeat’s stone cold. Why on earth didn’t you have it sent down to keep hot?”
“Well, dear, I didn’t know. You see, I thought you were just coming—”
John Christow pressed the bell, a long, irritated push. Lewis came promptly.
“Take this down and tell Cook to warm it up.”
He spoke curtly.
“Yes, sir.” Lewis, slightly impertinent, managed to convey in the two innocuous words exactlyher opinion of a mistress who sat at the dining table watching a joint of meat grow cold.
Gerda went on rather incoherently:
“I’m so sorry, dear, it’s all my fault, but first, you see, I thought you were coming, and then Ithought, well, if I did send it back….”
John interrupted her impatiently.
“Oh, what does it matter? It isn’t important. Not worth making a song and dance about.”
Then he asked:
“Is the car here?”
“I think so. Collie ordered it.”
“Then we can get away as soon as lunch is over.”
Across Albert Bridge, he thought, and then over Clapham Common — the shortcut by theCrystal Palace—Croydon—Purley Way, then avoid the main road—take that right-hand fork upMetherly Hill — along Haverston Ridge — get suddenly right of the suburban belt, throughCormerton, and then up Shovel Down—trees golden red—woodland below one everywhere—thesoft autumn smell, and down over the crest of the hill.
Lucy and Henry…Henrietta….
He hadn’t seen Henrietta for four days. When he had last seen her, he’d been angry. She’d hadthat look in her eyes. Not abstracted, not inattentive—he couldn’t quite describe it—that look ofseeing something — something that wasn’t there — something (and that was the crux of it)something that wasn’t John Christow!
He said to himself: “I know she’s a sculptor. I know her work’s good. But damn it all, can’t sheput it aside sometimes? Can’t she sometimes think of me—and nothing else?”
He was unfair. He knew he was unfair. Henrietta seldom talked of her work—was indeed lessobsessed by it than most artists he knew. It was only on very rare occasions that her absorptionwith some inner vision spoiled the completeness of her interest in him. But it always roused hisfurious anger.
Once he had said, his voice sharp and hard: “Would you give all this up if I asked you to?”
“All—what?” Her warm voice held surprise.
“All—this.” He waved a comprehensive hand round the studio.
And immediately he thought to himself: “Fool! Why did you ask her that?” And again: “Let hersay: ‘Of course.’ Let her lie to me! If she’ll only say: ‘Of course I will.’ It doesn’t matter if shemeans it or not! But let her say it. I must have peace.”
Instead she had said nothing for some time. Her eyes had gone dreamy and abstracted. She hadfrowned a little.
Then she had said slowly:
“I suppose so. If it was necessary.”
“Necessary? What do you mean by necessary?”
“I don’t really know what I mean by it, John. Necessary, as an amputation might be necessary.”
“Nothing short of a surgical operation, in fact!”
“You are angry. What did you want me to say?”
“You know well enough. One word would have done. Yes. Why couldn’t you say it? You sayenough things to people to please them, without caring whether they’re true or not. Why not tome? For God’s sake, why not to me?”
And still very slowly she had answered:
“I don’t know…really, I don’t know, John. I can’t—that’s all. I can’t.”
He had walked up and down for a minute or two. Then he said:
“You will drive me mad, Henrietta. I never feel that I have any influence over you at all.”
“Why should you want to have?”
“I don’t know. I do.”
He threw himself down on a chair.
“I want to come first.”
“You do, John.”
“No. If I were dead, the first thing you’d do, with the tears streaming down your face, would beto start modelling some damned mourning woman or some figure of grief.”
“I wonder. I believe—yes, perhaps I would. It’s rather horrible.”
She had sat there looking at him with dismayed eyes.
第五章（1）
第五章
1餐厅里，小男孩特里 [1] 正在进行另一场科学讲解。
“铅盐在冷水里比在热水里更容易溶解。如果在里面加入碘化钾，就会得到一种黄色的碘化铅沉淀。”
他充满期待地看着妈妈，但心中并未真正抱有希望。在小特伦斯看来，父母总令人失望。
“你原来知道这些事吗，母亲——”
“我对化学一无所知呢，亲爱的。”
“你可以在书里读到的。”特伦斯说。
这句话只是对事实的简单陈述，但背后隐藏着某种淡淡的惆怅。
格尔达并没有听出这种惆怅。她已陷入那种令人焦虑不堪的悲苦陷阱当中，一圈一圈一圈地深陷。她自今天早晨起床后就一直感到十分悲苦，因为意识到她已恐惧良久的、与安格卡特尔一家共度的漫长周末，终于即将降临。空幻庄园对她来说，无疑是一个噩梦。
在那里，她总是感到迷惑不解、孤苦无依。露西•安格卡特尔说话永远都只说一半，飞速跳跃的思路令人应接不暇，她还会极其明显地作出表示友好的努力，这一切都使她成为自己最害怕的人物。但其他人也差不多糟糕。对于格尔达来说，这两天无异于殉难——为了约翰而忍苦受难。
而约翰，他今天早晨一边伸着懒腰，一边以极其愉快的语调说：“一想到我们这个周末将要去乡间度过就觉得棒极了。去这一趟对你是有好处的，格尔达，你正需要出去走走。”
她机械地微笑着，并以一种无私的坚毅说：“会很愉快的。”
她郁郁寡欢的双眼环视着卧室。奶白色条纹的墙纸，在衣柜旁边有黑色的图案；桃花心木梳妆台上的镜子略微有些前倾；明快的天蓝色地毯；那幅描绘湖区风景的水彩画。所有这些亲切又熟悉的东西，她要等到下星期一才能再次见到它们。
相反，明天将会有一个衣裙沙沙作响的女仆走进那间陌生的卧室，在床边放下一杯盛在精致茶碟里的早茶，拉开窗帘，并重新整理折叠好格尔达的衣服——这令格尔达感觉浑身燥热，极不舒服。她将不得不凄苦地向他人说谎，默默忍受着这一切，试图安慰自己说：“只剩下一个早晨了。”就好像当年在学校里那样辛苦地数着日子。
格尔达的学生时代并不愉快。对她而言，学校比其他任何地方都更令她不安。在家里会好一些。但即使在家里，情况也不是很好。因为其他所有的人，毋庸置疑，都比她机灵，比她聪明。他们的话语总是那么机灵、不耐烦，算不上十分不友好，却像风暴一样在她的耳边呼啸。“哦，请快一点儿吧，格尔达。”“黄油手 [2] ，把那个给我！”“哦，别让格尔达干那个，她不知道要做到几时呢。”“格尔达永远什么都听不懂……”
难道他们所有人都看不出来吗，这样做只会使她更迟钝，更愚蠢？她变得越来越糟，手脚越来越笨拙，脑子越来越迟钝，对别人说的话越来越多地报以茫然空洞的瞪视。
一直熬到那个瞬间，她突然找到了一条出路。那几乎可以说是纯粹的巧合，但她的确找到了防卫的武器。
她变得更迟钝了，她那迷惑不解的目光变得更加茫然。但现在，当他们不耐烦地说：“哦，格尔达，你是有多蠢，连这都理解不了吗？”她就能够躲在茫然的表情之后，在心中秘密地暗自窃喜一下……因为她并不是他们所认为的那么愚蠢。通常，当她假装不理解的时候，其实是理解的。而且，无论做什么，她都常常故意减慢速度，直到别人不耐烦地伸出手，把她在做的东西一把抓走，这时她就会在心中暗暗地发笑。
因为，那种隐秘的优越感令她感到温暖和快乐。她开始时常感觉到有点好笑。是的，知道得比别人以为你知道得多，能够做到一件事情，但不让任何人知道你能够做到，确实非常有趣。
而且这么做是有好处的，你会突然发现，人们常常在替你做事。这当然会为你省掉很多麻烦。到最后，一旦人们养成了为你做事的习惯，你就完全不必再做事了，人们也就无法知道你做不好。而因此，慢慢地，兜了一个圈后，几乎又重新回到了起点。你感觉到自己可以以平等的立场与整个世界对峙。
（但是，格尔达担心，在面对安格卡特尔家的人时，想要坚持自己的立场似乎是不可能的。安格卡特尔家的人总是那么远远地赶在你的前头，你甚至不会觉得你和他们处在同一条街上。她是多么憎恨安格卡特尔家的人！但这对约翰有好处——约翰喜欢那儿。他从那里回到家时，精神就会好多了——有时也不那么易怒了。）亲爱的约翰，她想。约翰出色极了。每个人都这样认为。多么能干的一个医生，对病人又是那么和善。殚精竭虑地工作，对医院的病人投入那么多的关怀——他做所有这方面的工作都是无偿的。约翰是如此不计得失——真正的高尚。
她从一开始就清楚地知道，约翰才华横溢，并且将达到事业的顶峰。而他选择了她，虽然他完全可以娶到一个比她聪颖得多的女人。他不介意她的迟钝、愚钝，以及平凡的外表。“我会照顾你的，”他曾这么说，口气温柔，却又独断，“别担心任何事，格尔达，我会把你照顾好的……”
就像一个男人应该做的那样。想起约翰选择了她，是多么美好。
他当时带着他那极其迷人的、半含乞求的微笑突然说：“我自有我喜欢的一套，你知道的，格尔达。”
嗯，没关系。她总是尽量在每一件事上对他让步。即使是最近当他变得那么易怒而神经质——似乎什么事都不能取悦于他。不知出于什么原因，她做的事似乎没有一件是对的。谁都不能责备他，他是那么忙，那么无私——
天哪，那盘羊肉！她应该把它送回去的。约翰仍然毫无踪迹。为什么她就不能偶尔做出一次正确的决定呢？那种悲惨的暗流又一次席卷了她的全身。那盘羊肉！这个和安格卡特尔一家共度的可怕周末。她感觉到一阵锐痛贯穿了两边的太阳穴。天哪，偏偏在这时候头疼又要发作了。她的头疼每每惹得约翰不悦。他从不肯给她开任何药，虽然这对一个医生来说是轻而易举的事。相反，他总是说：“别想这个，灌药毒害自己对你没有任何好处。
出去散散步就好了。”
那盘羊肉！格尔达呆呆地瞪着它，感觉到那个词在她疼痛的脑袋里不断重复。“那盘羊肉，那盘羊肉，那盘羊肉……”
自怜的眼泪涌满了她的眼眶。为什么，她想，我就没有一件事能做对呢？
特伦斯看了看坐在他对面的母亲，然后又看了看那盘带骨羊肉。他想：“为什么我们不能吃饭？大人们真是愚蠢。他们毫无常识！”
他谨慎地说：“我和尼科尔森•迈纳准备在他父亲的灌木丛里制造硝化甘油。他们住在史特里珊。”
“是吗，亲爱的？那很好啊。”格尔达说。
现在还来得及。如果她现在打铃，叫刘易斯把这盘带骨羊肉拿下去——特伦斯带着淡淡的好奇心看着她。他本能地感觉到，制造硝化甘油不是一种会得到父母鼓励的爱好。他凭着基本的乐观态度，选择了一个在他看来最有可能使他的要求蒙混过关的场合。而他的判断被证明是正确的。如果，万中有一，出现了什么麻烦——那是指如果硝化甘油的特性表现得太过明显的话，他就可以用一种深受伤害的语气说：“我告诉过母亲的。”
尽管如此，他仍然感到一种模糊的失望。
即使是母亲，他想着，也应该知道硝化甘油啊。
他叹了口气。一种只有儿童才能感受到的强烈的孤独感如潮水般席卷了他的全身。他的父亲不耐烦听他说话，他的母亲又太不在意。而齐娜，只是一个愚蠢的小孩。
那一页又一页有趣的化学实验啊，但谁又在意呢？没人！
砰！格尔达惊了一下。这是约翰诊室的门在响。约翰正在上楼。
约翰•克里斯托大步走进来，他那独有的强烈的能量充满屋内。他心情很好，饥饿，不耐烦。
“上帝，”他坐下身，一边感叹着，一边精力十足地用磨刀棒磨了磨切肉刀，“我真是太讨厌那些病人了！”
“哦，约翰，”格尔达立即表现出指责的意味，“别这样说，他们会以为你是认真的。”
她的头微微冲孩子们的方向点了点。
“我的确是认真的，”约翰•克里斯托说，“谁都不应该生病。”
“父亲在开玩笑。”格尔达迅速对特伦斯说。
特伦斯以他看待整个世界的那种冷静态度，审视着他的父亲。
“我认为他不是开玩笑。”他说。
“如果你讨厌病人，你就不会当医生了，亲爱的。”格尔达温柔地笑着说道。
“这恰恰是原因所在，”约翰•克里斯托说，“没有一个医生喜欢病痛。我的上帝，这肉简直像石头一样冷。你为什么不把它送去热一热？”
“哎，亲爱的，我不知道呢。你瞧，我还以为你就要回来了——”
约翰•克里斯托按下铃，铃声悠长，带着怒气。刘易斯迅速走了进来。
“把这个拿下去，让厨房热一热。”他立即说。
“好，先生。”刘易斯的口气略有些粗鲁，成功地通过这两个简单的词，确切地表达出她对这个坐在餐桌边、眼睁睁看着一盘带骨羊肉变冷的主妇的看法。
格尔达结结巴巴地继续道：“真对不起，亲爱的，都是我的错，但刚开始，你瞧，我以为你就要回来了，但紧接着我又想，嗯，如果我真的把它送回去——”
约翰不耐烦地打断了她。
“哦，这又有什么关系？一点儿都不重要。完全不值得为此小题大作。”
接着他问：“车到了吗？”
“我想到了。科莉订过。”
“那么我们一吃完午饭就可以离开了。”
穿过艾伯特桥，他想，接着通过克拉彭的公地——从水晶宫抄一条近道——克罗伊登——珀里巷，然后避开主干道——从右边的那条岔路爬上梅思利山——沿着哈弗斯顿山脊——向右急转拐到郊区外环路，穿过科尔默顿，然后爬上沙夫尔高地——金红色的树林——下边到处都是林地——秋天那柔和的气息，然后从山顶往下。
露西和亨利……亨莉埃塔……
他已经有四天没见到亨莉埃塔了。上一次见她的时候，他大发雷霆。她的眼里闪着那种光芒。不是心不在焉，也不是漫不经心——他无法确切地描述它——仿佛她看到了某种东西，某种并不存在的东西，某种（这正是症结所在）约翰•克里斯托之外的东西！
他暗忖，我知道她是一个雕塑家。我知道她的作品很出色。但是，该死的，她难道就不能有时候把这一点撇在一边吗？她难道就不能有时候只想到我，而不想其他任何事吗？
他很不公平。他知道自己很不公平。亨莉埃塔很少谈及她的工作——事实上，她对工作的沉迷程度远低于他所知道的绝大多数艺术家。只有在极少数场合，她才会陷入自己内心的想法，而破坏了她对于他全心全意的关注。但这一点总会激起他那猛烈的怒火。
曾有一次，他尖刻而强硬地说：“如果我提出要求，你能放弃这一切吗？”
“一切的——什么？”她那温柔的声音中带有一丝惊奇。
“这一切——所有这些。”他挥手比了比整个工作室。
他立刻在心里告诉自己，傻瓜！你为什么要问她这种问题？但又想着，让她说“当然。”让她对我说谎！只要她肯说“我当然会的。”不管她是不是真心的！但让她这样说吧，我必须获得内心的平静。
然而，她沉默了一段时间，目光变得梦幻般迷离和超然，眉头微微皱起。
接着她慢慢地说：“我想会吧，如果有必要的话。”
“有必要？你说的有必要是什么意思？”
“我也不太知道我说的是什么意思，约翰。有必要，就像有时候有必要截肢。”
“也就是说完全等同于外科手术了？”
“你生气了。你想让我说什么呢？”
“你非常清楚。一个字就可以让我满足。是。为什么你说不出口？你常常对别人说各种各样的话来取悦他们，从不在意这些话是否真实。为什么对我不这样？看在上帝的分上，为什么对我不这样？”
她依然非常缓慢地回答：“我不知道……真的，我不知道，约翰。我做不到——就是这样。我做不到。”
他来来回回走了一两分钟，接着他说：“你要把我逼疯了，亨莉埃塔。我感觉我对你从来没有任何影响力。”
“为什么你想有？”
“我不知道，我就是想。”
他倒在一张椅子里。
“我想成为最重要的人。”
“你就是最重要的，约翰。”
“不。如果我死了，你会做的第一件事，就是泪流满面地开始雕塑某个该死的哀悼女人或是沉痛者的肖像。”
“我很怀疑。我想——是吧，也许我会这样。那真是糟透了。”
她坐在那里，惊愕不安地望着他。
注释：
[1]特里是特伦斯的昵称。
[2]黄油手指拿东西不稳的人。
Five（2）
II
The pudding was burnt. Christow raised his eyebrows over it and Gerda hurried into apologies.
“I’m sorry, dear. I can’t think why that should happen. It’s my fault. Give me the top and youtake the underneath.”
The pudding was burnt because he, John Christow, had stayed sitting in his consulting room fora quarter of an hour after he need, thinking about Henrietta and Mrs. Crabtree and lettingridiculous nostalgic feelings about San Miguel sweep over him. The fault was his. It was idiotic ofGerda to try and take the blame, maddening of her to try and eat the burnt part herself. Why didshe always have to make a martyr of herself? Why did Terence stare at him in that slow, interestedway? Why, oh why, did Zena have to sniff so continually? Why were they all so damnedirritating?
His wrath fell on Zena.
“Why on earth don’t you blow your nose?”
“She’s got a little cold, I think, dear.”
“No, she hasn’t. You’re always thinking they have colds! She’s all right.”
Gerda sighed. She had never been able to understand why a doctor, who spent his time treatingthe ailments of others, could be so indifferent to the health of his own family. He always ridiculedany suggestions of illness.
“I sneezed eight times before lunch,” said Zena importantly.
“Heat sneeze!” said John.
“It’s not hot,” said Terence. “The thermometer in the hall is 55.”
John got up. “Have we finished? Good, let’s get on. Ready to start, Gerda?”
“In a minute, John. I’ve just a few things to put in.”
“Surely you could have done that before. What have you been doing all the morning?”
He went out of the dining room fuming. Gerda had hurried off into her bedroom. Her anxiety tobe quick would make her much slower. But why couldn’t she have been ready? His own suitcasewas packed and in the hall. Why on earth—
Zena was advancing on him, clasping some rather sticky cards.
“Can I tell your fortune, Daddy? I know how. I’ve told Mother’s and Terry’s and Lewis’s andJane’s and Cook’s.”
“All right.”
He wondered how long Gerda was going to be. He wanted to get away from this horrible houseand this horrible street and this city full of ailing, sniffing, diseased people. He wanted to get towoods and wet leaves—and the graceful aloofness of Lucy Angkatell, who always gave you theimpression she hadn’t even got a body.
Zena was importantly dealing out cards.
“That’s you in the middle, Father, the King of Hearts. The person whose fortune’s told isalways the King of Hearts. And then I deal the others face down. Two on the left of you and twoon the right of you and one over your head—that has power over you, and one under your feet—you have power over it. And this one—covers you!
“Now.” Zena drew a deep breath. “We turn them over. On the right of you is the Queen ofDiamonds—quite close.”
“Henrietta,” he thought, momentarily diverted and amused by Zena’s solemnity.
“And the next one is the knave of clubs—he’s some quiet young man.
“On the left of you is the eight of spades—that’s a secret enemy. Have you got a secret enemy,Father?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And beyond is the Queen of Spades—that’s a much older lady.”
“Lady Angkatell,” he said.
“Now this is what’s over your head and has power over you—the Queen of Hearts.”
“Veronica,” he thought. “Veronica!” And then, “What a fool I am! Veronica doesn’t mean athing to me now.”
“And this is under your feet and you have power over it—the Queen of Clubs.”
Gerda hurried into the room.
“I’m quite ready now, John.”
“Oh, wait, Mother, wait, I’m telling Daddy’s fortune. Just the last card, Daddy—the mostimportant of all. The one that covers you.”
Zena’s small sticky fingers turned it over. She gave a gasp.
“Oh—it’s the Ace of Spades! That’s usually a death—but—”
“Your mother,” said John, “is going to run over someone on the way out of London. Come on,Gerda. Good-bye, you two. Try and behave.”
第五章（2）
2布丁烤糊了。克里斯托扬了扬眉毛，格尔达急忙道歉。
“对不起，亲爱的。我真不明白为什么会发生这样的事。全都是我的错。上面的给我，你们吃下面的。”
布丁会烤糊，是因为他，约翰•克里斯托，平白无故地在诊室里呆坐了一刻钟，想着亨莉埃塔和格雷伯特夫人，让自己沉浸在那荒谬的对圣•米格尔的怀旧情绪之中。要说错，都是他的错。格尔达像个傻子似的试图承担责任，疯了一般想要自己吃掉烤糊了的部分。她为什么总要把自己弄成个烈士？为什么特伦斯要那样慢吞吞的、兴趣盎然地注视着他？为什么，哦，为什么齐娜要不停地吸鼻子？为什么他们都那么该死的让人恼火？
他的愤怒降临到了齐娜头上。
“你为什么不能擤一下鼻子？”
“我想她有一点儿感冒了，亲爱的。”
“不，她没有，你总觉得他们感冒了！其实她一点儿毛病都没有。”格尔达叹了口气。
她完全不能理解，为什么一个成天忙于治疗他人病痛的医生，对自己家人的健康却如此漠不关心。他总对任何生病的说法嗤之以鼻。
“我在午饭前打了八个喷嚏。”齐娜郑重地说。
“不过是天气热引起的喷嚏而已！”约翰说。
“天气并不热，”特伦斯说，“大厅里的温度计显示只有五十五度 [1] 。”
约翰站起身来。“你们吃完了吗？很好，我们准备动身吧。你能出发了吗，格尔达？”
“稍等片刻，约翰。我还得装一点儿东西进去。”
“这些事你早就应该做完了。你整个上午都在干什么？”
他怒气冲冲地走出了餐厅。格尔达也匆匆走进她的卧室。她急切地希望能加快速度，结果手脚却更慢。但为什么她不能早点儿准备好呢？约翰他自己的手提箱早已经装好放在大厅里了。究竟为什么——
齐娜走到他面前，手里攥着一把黏糊糊的纸牌。
“我给你算个命好吗，爸爸？我知道怎么算哦。我已经给妈妈、特里、刘易斯、简还有厨师算过啦。”
“好的。”
他在心里盘算着，不知道格尔达还需要多长时间。他想离开这栋糟糕的房子，这条糟糕的街道，以及这座充满了疼痛病人的城市。他想要贴近树林和湿润的树叶——还有露西•安格卡特尔身上那种优雅的疏离气质，她总能让人感觉她甚至并非切实存在。
齐娜正在郑重其事地发牌。
“中间的是你，爸爸，红桃K。被算命的人总是红桃K。然后，其他的牌都要背面向上发。两张在你的左边，两张在你的右边，还有一张在你的头上——那是能控制你的人；一张在你的脚下——你能控制它。还有这张——盖住你！”
“现在，”齐娜深吸了一口气，“我们把它们翻过来。你右边的是方块Q——十分亲密。”
亨莉埃塔。他想，一下子被齐娜那肃穆的神情逗笑了。
“旁边的是梅花J——一个安静的年轻男子。
“你左边的是黑桃8——他是一个秘密的敌人。你有秘密的敌人吗，父亲？”
“据我所知没有。”
“再旁边是黑桃Q——那是一个年纪要大得多的女士。”
“安格卡特尔夫人。”他说。
“现在这张是在你头顶的、对你有控制力的人——红桃Q。”
薇罗尼卡，他想，薇罗尼卡！接着又想，我真是一个笨蛋！薇罗尼卡现在对我没有任何意义。
“这张是在你脚下的、你能控制的人——梅花Q。”
格尔达匆匆走进屋里。
“现在我已经完全准备好了，约翰。”
“哦，等等，妈妈，等等，我正在为爸爸算命。只剩最后一张牌了，爸爸——这是最重要的一张，盖住你的那一张。”
齐娜那小小的、粘粘的手指把它翻了过来。她倒吸了一口气。
“哦——是黑桃A！这通常意味着死亡，但是——”
“你的母亲，”约翰说，“在驶出伦敦的路上可能要撞到人了。走吧，格尔达。再见，你们两个，乖乖的，要听话。”
注释：
[1]指华氏五十五度，相当于摄氏十三度。
Six（1）
Six
I
Midge Hardcastle came downstairs about eleven on Saturday morning. She had had breakfast inbed and had read a book and dozed a little and then got up.
It was nice lazing this way. About time she had a holiday! No doubt about it, Madame Alfrege’sgot on your nerves.
She came out of the front door into the pleasant autumn sunshine. Sir Henry Angkatell wassitting on a rustic seat reading The Times. He looked up and smiled. He was fond of Midge.
“Hallo, my dear.”
“Am I very late?”
“You haven’t missed lunch,” said Sir Henry, smiling.
Midge sat down beside him and said with a sigh:
“It’s nice being here.”
“You’re looking rather peaked.”
“Oh, I’m all right. How delightful to be somewhere where no fat women are trying to get intoclothes several sizes too small for them!”
“Must be dreadful!” Sir Henry paused and then said, glancing down at his wristwatch:
“Edward’s arriving by the 12:15.”
“Is he?” Midge paused, then said: “I haven’t seen Edward for a long time.”
“He’s just the same,” said Sir Henry. “Hardly ever comes up from Ainswick.”
“Ainswick,” thought Midge. “Ainswick!” Her heart gave a sick pang. Those lovely days atAinswick. Visits looked forward to for months! “I’m going to Ainswick.” Lying awake for nightsbeforehand thinking about it. And at last—the day! The little country station at which the train—the big London express—had to stop if you gave notice to the guard! The Daimler waiting outside.
The drive—the final turn in through the gate and up through the woods till you came out into theopen and there the house was — big and white and welcoming. Old Uncle Geoffrey in hispatchwork tweed coat.
“Now then, youngsters—enjoy yourselves.” And they had enjoyed themselves. Henrietta overfrom Ireland. Edward, home from Eton. She herself, from the Northcountry grimness of amanufacturing town. How like heaven it had been.
But always centring about Edward. Edward, tall and gentle and diffident and always kind. Butnever, of course, noticing her very much because Henrietta was there.
Edward, always so retiring, so very much of a visitor so that she had been startled one day whenTremlet, the head gardener, had said:
“The place will be Mr. Edward’s some day.”
“But why, Tremlet? He’s not Uncle Geoffrey’s son.”
“He’s the heir, Miss Midge. Entailed, that’s what they call it. Miss Lucy, she’s Mr. Geoffrey’sonly child, but she can’t inherit because she’s a female, and Mr. Henry, as she married, he’s only asecond cousin. Not so near as Mr. Edward.”
And now Edward lived at Ainswick. Lived there alone and very seldom came away. Midgewondered, sometimes, if Lucy minded. Lucy always looked as though she never minded aboutanything.
Yet Ainswick had been her home, and Edward was only her first cousin once removed, and overtwenty years younger than she was. Her father, old Geoffrey Angkatell, had been a great“character” in the country. He had had considerable wealth as well, most of which had come toLucy, so that Edward was a comparatively poor man, with enough to keep the place up, but notmuch over when that was done.
Not that Edward had expensive tastes. He had been in the diplomatic service for a time, butwhen he inherited Ainswick he had resigned and come to live on his property. He was of abookish turn of mind, collected first editions, and occasionally wrote rather hesitating ironical littlearticles for obscure reviews. He had asked his second cousin, Henrietta Savernake, three times tomarry him.
Midge sat in the autumn sunshine thinking of these things. She could not make up her mindwhether she was glad she was going to see Edward or not. It was not as though she were what iscalled “getting over it.” One simply did not get over anyone like Edward. Edward of Ainswickwas just as real to her as Edward rising to greet her from a restaurant table in London. She hadloved Edward ever since she could remember….
Sir Henry’s voice recalled her.
“How do you think Lucy is looking?”
“Very well. She’s just the same as ever.” Midge smiled a little. “More so.”
“Ye—es.” Sir Henry drew on his pipe. He said unexpectedly:
“Sometimes, you know, Midge, I get worried about Lucy.”
“Worried?” Midge looked at him in surprise. “Why?”
Sir Henry shook his head.
“Lucy,” he said, “doesn’t realize that there are things that she can’t do.”
Midge stared. He went on:
“She gets away with things. She always has.” He smiled. “She’s flouted the traditions ofGovernment House—she’s played merry hell with precedence at dinner parties (and that, Midge,is a black crime!). She’s put deadly enemies next to each other at the dinner table, and run riotover the colour question! And instead of raising one big almighty row and setting everyone atloggerheads and bringing disgrace on the British Raj—I’m damned if she hasn’t got away with it!
That trick of hers—smiling at people and looking as though she couldn’t help it! Servants are thesame—she gives them any amount of trouble and they adore her.”
“I know what you mean,” said Midge thoughtfully. “Things that you wouldn’t stand fromanyone else, you feel are all right if Lucy does them. What is it, I wonder? Charm? Magnetism?”
Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders.
“She’s always been the same from a girl—only sometimes I feel it’s growing on her. I meanthat she doesn’t realize that there are limits. Why, I really believe, Midge,” he said, amused, “thatLucy would feel she could get away with murder!”
第六章（1）
第六章
1星期六上午，米奇•哈德卡斯尔大约十一点走下楼梯。在起床之前，她已经在床上吃过早饭，读了一本书，又睡了一小会儿回笼觉。
这种慵懒的生活真令人愉悦。她也该好好度个假了！毫无疑问，阿尔弗雷治夫人实在令人心烦意乱。
她走出前门，沐浴在使人愉快的秋日阳光里。亨利•安格卡特尔爵士正坐在一张粗木椅子上读《泰晤士报》。他抬头看了看，微笑起来。他很喜欢米奇。
“你好，亲爱的。”
“我是不是起晚了？”
“你没有错过午饭。”亨利爵士微笑着说。
米奇坐在他旁边，伴随着一声感叹，说：“在这儿真是太好了。”“你看上去相当憔悴。”
“哦，我很好。这里没有胖女人想尽办法挤进小了好几号的衣服，待在这种地方真让人高兴！”
“那真是太可怕了！”亨利爵士停顿了一下，接着低头扫了一眼他的腕表，说，“爱德华十二点一刻就到了。”
“是吗？”米奇停顿了一下，接着说，“我已经很长时间没有见到爱德华了。”
“他也是一样，”亨利爵士说，“他几乎从不离开安斯威克到这儿来。”
安斯威克，米奇心想，安斯威克！她的心好像被重重地一击。那些在安斯威克度过的幸福时光啊，每次要去之前她都能眼巴巴地盼望上几个月！“我要去安斯威克了。”多少个不眠之夜，她躺在床上这样想着。直到终于——那一天到来了！那个小小的乡村车站，火车——庞大的伦敦特快——只有在收到通知时才会停靠一下！那辆戴姆勒会停在车站外边等候。然后一路行驶——最后拐弯驶进大门，一路向上穿过树林，直到进入一片开阔地。
那栋房子就矗立在那里——又大又白，盛情相邀。老杰夫里叔叔穿着他那件拼色粗花呢外套站在门口。
“来吧，年轻人——玩个痛快吧。”他们确实玩得很愉快。亨莉埃塔从爱尔兰过来。爱德华家在伊顿。她自己则来自北部一个阴森的工业小镇。那地方则宛如天堂。
但一切总是以爱德华为中心。爱德华高大、温柔、略带怯态，永远那么和气。但是，当然，从不怎么注意到她，因为亨莉埃塔也在。
爱德华总是那么孤独腼腆，完全像个客人的样子，所以有一天，当特雷姆利特，那个园丁头儿，向她说起这件事的时候，她大吃了一惊。
“这个地方总有一天会是爱德华先生的。”
“为什么，特雷姆利特？他不是杰夫里叔叔的儿子。”
“但他是继承人，米奇小姐。有法定继承权，是这么说的吧？露西小姐，是杰夫里先生的独生女，但她不能继承财产，因为她是女人。而亨利先生，她的丈夫，只是表姨弟而已，关系没有爱德华先生那么近。”
现在，爱德华就独居在安斯威克，极少出门。米奇有时也会禁不住怀疑露西是否介意。露西看起来总是一副对任何事情都毫不介意的样子。
然而安斯威克曾是她的家，爱德华不过是她的堂侄而已，还比她年轻二十多岁。她的父亲，老杰夫里•安格卡特尔，曾是英国的一个“大人物”。他极为富有，财产大半都留给了露西，因此，爱德华相对而言只是一个穷人。他的钱足够维持那个地方的开销，但除此之外就所剩无几了。
并不是说爱德华有什么昂贵的嗜好。他在外交部工作了一段时间，但继承了安斯威克之后他就辞职了，依靠他的财产生活。他天性喜好读书，热衷于收藏初版书，偶尔也为那些晦涩的评论性杂志写点儿含混的讽刺小文章。他曾向他的姨表妹，亨莉埃塔•萨弗纳克，求过三次婚。
米奇坐在秋日的阳光下，思量着这些事情。她难以判断见到爱德华后自己是否会感到高兴。她并不能算所谓的“已经放下了”。没有人能够完全放下像爱德华那样的人。对她来说，安斯威克的爱德华，与在伦敦的一家餐厅桌前站起身来迎接她的爱德华，同样真实。
她从记事起，就已经在爱着爱德华了……
亨利爵士的声音将她拉回了现实。
“你认为露西看起来如何？”
“非常好，同往常一样。”米奇微微笑了一下，“甚至比以往还要好。”
“是——的。”亨利爵士点燃了烟斗。他有些让人意外地说：“有时，你知道，米奇，我很为露西担心。”
“担心？”米奇惊奇地看着他，“为什么？”
亨利爵士摇了摇头。
“露西，”他说，“她意识不到有些事是她不能做的。”
米奇瞪视着他。他继续说道：“她总有本事逃脱责任。她总这样。”他微笑了，“她完全无视总督官邸的传统——她曾完全破坏了晚宴的尊卑秩序（米奇，那可是个天大的罪过！）。她安排死敌们坐在一起，还毫无节制地谈论种族问题！但她竟然没有引起惊天动地的争吵，让所有人都怒目相向，使得帝国对印度的统治蒙羞——如果在这种情况下她还能全身而退，那才是见了鬼了！她的诀窍是——冲着人们微笑，作出一副她对此完全无能为力的模样！对用人们也是一样——她给他们造成了巨大的麻烦，但他们都非常喜爱她。”
“我明白你的意思。”米奇深思着说，“如果换成其他人做出这样的事，你绝对无法忍受，但如果是露西，你就会觉得没关系。我不知道那究竟是因为什么？个人魅力？吸引力？”
亨利爵士耸了耸肩。
“这么多年来，她一直都没有改变——只是有时，我觉得她已经习惯了这种局面。我是说，她并没有意识到凡事都是有个限度的。啊，我真的相信，米奇。”他语带戏谑意味地说，“露西会觉得哪怕是谋杀，她也能全身而退！”
Six（2）
II
Henrietta got the Delage out from the garage in the Mews and, after a wholly technicalconversation with her friend Albert, who looked after the Delage’s health, she started off.
“Running a treat, miss,” said Albert.
Henrietta smiled. She shot away down the Mews, savouring the unfailing pleasure she alwaysfelt when setting off in the car alone. She much preferred to be alone when driving. In that way shecould realize to the full the intimate personal enjoyment that driving a car brought to her.
She enjoyed her own skill in traffic, she enjoyed nosing out new shortcuts out of London. Shehad routes of her own and when driving in London itself had as intimate a knowledge of its streetsas any taxi driver.
She took now her own newly discovered way southwest, turning and twisting through intricatemazes of suburban streets.
When she came finally to the long ridge of Shovel Down it was half past twelve. Henrietta hadalways loved the view from that particular place. She paused now just at the point where the roadbegan to descend. All around and below her were trees, trees whose leaves were turning from goldto brown. It was a world incredibly golden and splendid in the strong autumn sunlight.
Henrietta thought: “I love autumn. It’s so much richer than spring.”
And suddenly one of those moments of intense happiness came to her—a sense of the lovelinessof the world—of her own intense enjoyment of that world.
She thought: “I shall never be as happy again as I am now—never.”
She stayed there a minute, gazing out over that golden world that seemed to swim and dissolveinto itself, hazy and blurred with its own beauty.
Then she came down over the crest of the hill, down through the woods, down the long steeproad to The Hollow.
第六章（2）
2亨莉埃塔把那辆戴丽治车从车库中取了出来，同负责保养戴丽治的朋友艾尔伯特聊了一番技术性的问题之后，她发动了引擎。
“旅途愉快，小姐。”艾尔伯特说。
亨莉埃塔微笑着。她加速驶出了车库，享受着单独驾车出行给她带来的巨大愉悦。开车的时候，她总喜欢一个人。这样，她才得以充分感受驾车所能带给她的私密的个人乐趣。
她享受自己穿行于街道中的技术；她享受一点一点地摸索出离开伦敦的新捷径。她有自己琢磨出的路线，在伦敦市内驾车时，她对街道的熟悉程度可与任何一个出租车司机媲美。
此刻，她选择了自己新发现的一条路线，向西南方向行驶，在近郊那迷宫般的复杂街道中转弯、折行。
当她最终到达沙夫尔高地那道长长的山脊时，正好是十二点半。亨莉埃塔一直很喜欢这里的景色。她在快要下坡的地方停下车。她的四周与脚下，目力所及之处都是成片的树林，树叶正渐渐由金色褪成褐色。在秋日强烈的阳光下，构成一个金碧辉煌的美妙世界。
亨莉埃塔暗忖，我爱秋天。它比春天要丰富得多。
突然之间，她感觉到一阵强烈的幸福感——意识到这个世界的可爱，以及她对这个世界的强烈热爱。
她想，我永远也不会比现在更快乐了——永远也不会。
她在那儿停留了一会儿，极目四望着那个似乎在游动并融化的金色世界，被它无以伦比的美夺去了神智。
之后，她沿着山顶而下，穿过树林，沿着那条漫长而陡峭的路继续前行，直至空幻庄园。
Six（3）
III
When Henrietta drove in, Midge was sitting on the low wall of the terrace, and waved to hercheerfully. Henrietta was pleased to see Midge, whom she liked.
Lady Angkatell came out of the house and said:
“Oh, there you are, Henrietta. When you’ve taken your car into the stables and given it a branmash, lunch will be ready.”
“What a penetrating remark of Lucy’s,” said Henrietta as she drove round the house, Midgeaccompanying her on the step. “You know, I always prided myself on having completely escapedthe horsy taint of my Irish forebears. When you’ve been brought up amongst people who talknothing but horse, you go all superior about not caring for them. And now Lucy has just shown methat I treat my car exactly like a horse. It’s quite true. I do.”
“I know,” said Midge. “Lucy is quite devastating. She told me this morning that I was to be asrude as I liked whilst I was here.”
Henrietta considered this for a moment and then nodded.
“Of course,” she said. “The shop!”
“Yes. When one has to spend every day of one’s life in a damnable little box being polite torude women, calling them Madam, pulling frocks over their heads, smiling and swallowing theirdamned cheek whatever they like to say to one — well, one does want to cuss! You know,Henrietta, I always wonder why people think it’s so humiliating to go “into service” and that it’sgrand and independent to be in a shop. One puts up with far more insolence in a shop thanGudgeon or Simmons or any decent domestic does.”
“It must be foul, darling. I wish you weren’t so grand and proud and insistent on earning yourown living.”
“Anyway, Lucy’s an angel. I shall be gloriously rude to everyone this weekend.”
“Who’s here?” said Henrietta as she got out of the car.
“The Christows are coming.” Midge paused and then went on, “Edward’s just arrived.”
“Edward? How nice. I haven’t seen Edward for ages. Anybody else?”
“David Angkatell. That, according to Lucy, is where you are going to come in useful. You’regoing to stop him biting his nails.”
“It sounds very unlike me,” said Henrietta. “I hate interfering with people, and I wouldn’t dreamof checking their personal habits. What did Lucy really say?”
“It amounted to that! He’s got an Adam’s apple, too!”
“I’m not expected to do anything about that, am I?” asked Henrietta, alarmed.
“And you’re to be kind to Gerda.”
“How I should hate Lucy if I were Gerda!”
“And someone who solves crimes is coming to lunch tomorrow.”
“We’re not going to play the Murder Game, are we?”
“I don’t think so. I think it is just neighbourly hospitality.”
Midge’s voice changed a little.
“Here’s Edward coming out to meet us.”
“Dear Edward,” thought Henrietta with a sudden rush of warm affection.
Edward Angkatell was very tall and thin. He was smiling now as he came towards the twoyoung women.
“Hallo, Henrietta, I haven’t seen you for over a year.”
“Hallo, Edward.”
How nice Edward was! That gentle smile of his, the little creases at the corners of his eyes. Andall his nice knobbly bones. “I believe it’s his bones I like so much,” thought Henrietta. Thewarmth of her affection for Edward startled her. She had forgotten that she liked Edward so much.
第六章（3）
3当亨莉埃塔驶入庄园的时候，米奇正坐在露台的矮墙上开心地冲她挥手。看见她一直喜爱的米奇，亨莉埃塔感到十分高兴。
安格卡特尔夫人走出房子，说：“啊，你来了，亨莉埃塔。快把你的车牵到马厩里，给它喂一顿麦麸饲料。午饭马上就准备好了。”
“露西可真犀利。”亨莉埃塔一边驾车绕过主屋，一边说着。米奇站在台阶上陪伴着她。“你知道吗，我一直都特别为自己完全摆脱了爱尔兰人那种对马的热爱而自豪。当你在一群除了马之外什么都不谈的人中间长大时，会因为对此毫不关心而产生一种优越感。而露西刚刚正向我表明，我对待车子的态度恰恰像是对一匹马。毫无疑问，我的确如此。”
“我明白，”米奇说，“露西太能损人了。她今天早晨跟我说，在这里我可以想怎么粗鲁就怎么粗鲁。”
亨莉埃塔考虑了一下，点了点头。
“当然，”她说，“那家服装店！”
“是的。如果一个人必须每天都关在那间小破屋里，客客气气地招待那些粗鲁的妇人，称呼她们为‘夫人’，帮她们把洋装从头上套下去，扮出一张笑脸，忍受她们随时随地冒出的那些无礼的言论——哦，任谁都会想骂脏话！你知道的，亨莉埃塔，我总不明白为什么大家都认为‘服侍人’会是个非常丢脸的工作，而在商店里工作则非常光彩和自立。在商店里工作所要忍受的傲慢无礼，远远多于格杰恩或西蒙斯，或任何一个体面家庭里的用人。”
“那真是太讨厌了，亲爱的。我真希望你不要像现在这么崇高、骄傲，坚持主张自力更生。”
“不管怎样，露西真是一个天使。这个周末，我一定要趾高气昂地对你们所有人粗鲁相待。”
“谁来了？”亨莉埃塔走出汽车时问。
“克里斯托夫妇还在路上。”米奇顿了一下，继续说，“爱德华刚到。”
“爱德华？太好了。我已经很久没有见到爱德华了。还有其他人吗？”
“戴维•安格卡特尔。据露西说，这次是你大显身手的机会。你将负责阻止他咬指甲。”
“听起来真不像我会做的事啊。”亨莉埃塔说，“我讨厌干涉别人的事，而且我做梦都不会去妨碍别人的个人习惯。露西到底说了些什么？”
“总结来说就是这些！他还长了喉结。”
“我不必对此采取任何行动吧，是不是？”亨莉埃塔警惕地说。
“你还要负责和善地招待格尔达。”
“如果我是格尔达，我真要恨死露西了！”
“另外，有个解决犯罪案件的人明天会来吃午饭。”
“我们不是要玩谋杀游戏吧？”
“我觉得不是。我想这应该只是邻居间的礼尚往来而已。”
米奇的声音稍稍一变。
“爱德华来迎接我们啦。”
亲爱的爱德华，亨莉埃塔的心中突然涌起一股温暖的情意。
爱德华•安格卡特尔非常高，非常瘦。他向两个年轻女子走来，脸上挂着笑容。
“你好，亨莉埃塔，我已经有一年多没见到你了。”
“你好，爱德华。”
爱德华多和气啊！他那温柔的微笑，眼角细小的皱纹，还有那骨节突出的骨骼。我一定是太喜欢他的骨头了，亨莉埃塔想。油然而升的对爱德华的温暖情意使她感到震惊，她已经忘记原来自己这么喜欢爱德华了。
Six（4）
IV
After lunch Edward said: “Come for a walk, Henrietta.”
It was Edward’s kind of walk—a stroll.
They went up behind the house, taking a path that zigzagged up through the trees. Like thewoods at Ainswick, thought Henrietta. Dear Ainswick, what fun they had had there! She began totalk to Edward about Ainswick. They revived old memories.
“Do you remember our squirrel? The one with the broken paw. And we kept it in a cage and itgot well?”
“Of course. It had a ridiculous name—what was it now?”
“Cholmondeley-Marjoribanks!”
“That’s it.”
The both laughed.
“And old Mrs. Bondy, the housekeeper—she always said it would go up the chimney one day.”
“And we were so indignant.”
“And then it did.”
“She made it,” said Henrietta positively. “She put the thought into the squirrel’s head.”
She went on:
“Is it all the same, Edward? Or is it changed? I always imagine it just the same.”
“Why don’t you come and see, Henrietta? It’s a long long time since you’ve been there.”
“I know.”
Why, she thought, had she let so long a time go by? One got busy—interested—tangled up withpeople….
“You know you’re always welcome there at any time.”
“How sweet you are, Edward!”
Dear Edward, she thought, with his nice bones.
He said presently:
“I’m glad you’re fond of Ainswick, Henrietta.”
She said dreamily: “Ainswick is the loveliest place in the world.”
A long-legged girl, with a mane of untidy brown hair…a happy girl with no idea at all of thethings that life was going to do to her…a girl who loved trees….
To have been so happy and not to have known it! “If I could go back,” she thought.
And aloud she said suddenly:
“Is Ygdrasil still there?”
“It was struck by lightning.”
“Oh, no, not Ygdrasil!”
She was distressed. Ygdrasil—her own special name for the big oak tree. If the gods couldstrike down Ygdrasil, then nothing was safe! Better not go back.
“Do you remember your special sign, the Ygdrasil sign?”
“The funny tree like no tree that ever was I used to draw on bits of paper? I still do, Edward! Onblotters, and on telephone books, and on bridge scores. I doodle it all the time. Give me a pencil.”
He handed her a pencil and notebook, and laughing, she drew the ridiculous tree.
“Yes,” he said, “that’s Ygdrasil.”
They had come almost to the top of the path. Henrietta sat on a fallen tree trunk. Edward satdown beside her.
She looked down through the trees.
“It’s a little like Ainswick here—a kind of pocket Ainswick. I’ve sometimes wondered—Edward, do you think that that is why Lucy and Henry came here?”
“It’s possible.”
“One never knows,” said Henrietta slowly, “what goes on in Lucy’s head.” Then she asked:
“What have you been doing with yourself, Edward, since I saw you last?”
“Nothing, Henrietta.”
“That sounds very peaceful.”
“I’ve never been very good at—doing things.”
She threw him a quick glance. There had been something in his tone. But he was smiling at herquietly.
And again she felt that rush of deep affection.
“Perhaps,” she said, “you are wise.”
“Wise?”
“Not to do things.”
Edward said slowly, “That’s an odd thing for you to say, Henrietta. You, who’ve been sosuccessful.”
“Do you think of me as successful? How funny.”
“But you are, my dear. You’re an artist. You must be proud of yourself; you can’t help being.”
“I know,” said Henrietta. “A lot of people say that to me. They don’t understand—they don’tunderstand the first thing about it. You don’t, Edward. Sculpture isn’t a thing you set out to do andsucceed in. It’s a thing that gets at you, that nags at you—and haunts you—so that you’ve got,sooner or later, to make terms with it. And then, for a bit, you get some peace—until the wholething starts over again.”
“Do you want to be peaceful, Henrietta?”
“Sometimes I think I want to be peaceful more than anything in the world, Edward!”
“You could be peaceful at Ainswick. I think you could be happy there. Even—even if you hadto put up with me. What about it, Henrietta? Won’t you come to Ainswick and make it yourhome? It’s always been there, you know, waiting for you.”
Henrietta turned her head slowly. She said in a low voice: “I wish I wasn’t so dreadfully fond ofyou, Edward. It makes it so very much harder to go on saying No.”
“It is No, then?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve said No before—but this time—well, I thought it might be different. You’ve beenhappy this afternoon, Henrietta. You can’t deny that.”
“I’ve been very happy.”
“Your face even—it’s younger than it was this morning.”
“I know.”
“We’ve been happy together, talking about Ainswick, thinking about Ainswick. Don’t you seewhat that means, Henrietta?”
“It’s you who don’t see what it means, Edward! We’ve been living all this afternoon in thepast.”
“The past is sometimes a very good place to live.”
“One can’t go back. That’s the one thing one can’t do—go back.”
He was silent for a minute or two. Then he said in a quiet, pleasant and quite unemotional voice:
“What you really mean is that you won’t marry me because of John Christow?”
Henrietta did not answer, and Edward went on:
“That’s it, isn’t it? If there were no John Christow in the world you would marry me.”
Henrietta said harshly, “I can’t imagine a world in which there was no John Christow! That’swhat you’ve got to understand.”
“If it’s like that, why on earth doesn’t the fellow get a divorce from his wife and then you couldmarry?”
“John doesn’t want to get a divorce from his wife. And I don’t know that I should want to marryJohn if he did. It isn’t—it isn’t in the least like you think.”
Edward said in a thoughtful, considering way:
“John Christow. There are too many John Christows in this world.”
“You’re wrong,” said Henrietta. “There are very few people like John.”
“If that’s so—it’s a good thing! At least, that’s what I think!”
He got up. “We’d better go back again.”
第六章（4）
4午饭后，爱德华说：“我们去散散步吧，亨莉埃塔。”
这是爱德华式的散步——随处闲逛。
他们走到主屋后面，踏上了一条穿过树林的蜿蜒曲折的小径。跟安斯威克的树林一样，亨莉埃塔想。亲爱的安斯威克，他们曾在那里度过了那么多的好时光！她同爱德华谈起了安斯威克。重温起美好的记忆。
“还记得我们的松鼠吗？爪子受过伤的那只。我们还把它关在一个笼子里，直到它痊愈呢。”
“当然。它有一个可笑的名字——叫什么来着？”
“查姆利•马乔瑞班克斯！”
“没错。”
他们一起放声大笑起来。
“还有老邦迪夫人，那个管家——她总说它迟早有一天会爬上烟囱的。”
“我们当时都愤慨极了。”
“但它后来确实爬上去啦。”
“是她干的，”亨莉埃塔断然地说，“她把这个念头灌输到了松鼠的脑袋里。”
她接着说：“一切都还是老样子吗，爱德华？还是变样了？我总想象着一切都还是老样子。”
“为什么你不来看看呢，亨莉埃塔？你已经很久很久没有去过了。”
“我知道。”
为什么，她想，她竟然让这么长的一段时间就这样不知不觉地流逝了？人总会有事要忙——有兴趣爱好，和他人打交道……
“你知道那里不论任何时候都是欢迎你的。”
“你真是太好了，爱德华！”
亲爱的爱德华，她想着，他那漂亮的骨骼。
他立刻说：“我很高兴你还喜欢安斯威克，亨莉埃塔。”
她像做梦般地说：“安斯威克是世界上最可爱的地方。”
一个长腿的女孩子，披着一头乱蓬蓬的褐色头发……一个对未来的生活际遇全然无知的幸福的女孩子……一个热爱树木的女孩……
她曾经是那么幸福，却毫无察觉！如果能够回到从前就好了，她想。
她突然说：“伊格德拉西尔 [1] 还在那儿吗？”
“它被闪电击倒了。”
“哦，不是吧，可怜的伊格德拉西尔！”
她感到十分沮丧。伊格德拉西尔——她给那株老橡树起的名字。如果上天能够击倒伊格德拉西尔的话，可见没有什么是安全的！最好还是不要回到从前了。
“你还记得你那个特殊标记吗，那个伊格德拉西尔标记？”
“我过去总是喜欢到处画的怪树吗？它完全不像一棵树。我现在还会画它，爱德华！画在记事簿上，电话本上，还有桥牌的记分卡上。我会随时随地画这个。给我一支铅笔。”
他递给她一支铅笔和一个记事本，大笑着看她画下那株可笑的树。
“是的，”他说，“这就是伊格德拉西尔。”
他们几乎已经走到了那条小路的尽头。亨莉埃塔在一段倒下的树干上坐下。爱德华坐到了她身边。
她的目光穿过下方的树林。
“这里有一点儿像安斯威克——像是袖珍版的安斯威克。我有时猜想——爱德华，你说露西和亨利是不是因为这个才住在这里的呢？”
“可能吧。”
亨莉埃塔缓缓地说：“谁都不知道露西的脑子里在想些什么。”接着她问，“爱德华，自我们上一次见面之后，你都做了些什么呢？”
“什么也没做，亨莉埃塔。”
“你听起来很平静。”
“我从不擅长——做任何事。”
她迅速地瞟了他一眼。他的语气中似乎带着些什么，但他正平静地对她微笑着。
她又一次感觉到了那种深深的情意。
“也许，”她说，“你是明智的。”
“明智？”
“什么事都不做。”
爱德华缓缓地说：“由你说出这样的话来可真奇怪，亨莉埃塔。你一直那么成功。”
“你认为我很成功吗？真有意思。”
“但你确实是啊，亲爱的。你是一个艺术家。你一定很自豪，一定是这样的。”
“我知道，”亨莉埃塔说，“很多人都这样跟我说过。他们并不理解——他们完全不能理解。你也不理解，爱德华。雕塑并不是一件你动手去做，然后就会成功的事。它会自己来找到你，挑剔你——阴魂不散地纠缠你——使你迟早有一天必须向它妥协。然后，你才能得到那么一点点宁静——直到这整个过程又重新开始。”
“你希望获得宁静吗，亨莉埃塔？”
“有的时候，我觉得我对宁静的渴望胜过世上的一切，爱德华！”
“你可以在安斯威克获得宁静啊。我想你在那里会很幸福的。即使——即使你将不得不忍受我。怎么样，亨莉埃塔？你愿意来安斯威克，把它当作你的家吗？你知道的，它一直在那里等着你。”
亨莉埃塔慢慢地转过头来，用低低的声音说：“如果我没有那么喜欢你就好了，爱德华。这让我好难对你说‘不’啊。”
“那么，答案是‘不’了？”
“对不起。”
“你以前也曾说过‘不’，但这次——嗯，我原以为结果可能会不同。今天下午你很开心，亨莉埃塔，你不能否认这一点。”
“我确实很开心。”
“你的面孔甚至——看起来比今天早晨更年轻。”
“我知道。”
“我们在一起多开心啊，谈论安斯威克，想念安斯威克。你不明白这意味着什么吗，亨莉埃塔？”
“是你没有明白这意味着什么，爱德华！我们这一整个下午都活在过去呢。”
“有时候，活在过去也很好。”
“人是不可能回到过去的。这是唯一谁也做不到的事——回到过去。”
他沉默了一两分钟。然后，他以一种平静、愉快、不带丝毫情感的口气说：“你真正想说的是，因为约翰•克里斯托，你才不愿意嫁给我吧？”
亨莉埃塔没有回答。爱德华继续道：“就是这样，不是吗？如果这个世界上没有约翰•克里斯托，你就会嫁给我了。”
亨莉埃塔严厉地说：“我无法想象一个没有约翰•克里斯托的世界！这一点你必须明白。”
“如果真是这样的话，那家伙到底又是为了什么不同他的妻子离婚，然后娶你呢？”
“约翰不想同他的妻子离婚。而且，我也不知道如果他真的这么做了，我想不想嫁给他。这不是——这完全不是你想的那样。”
爱德华沉思着说：“约翰•克里斯托，这个世界上的约翰•克里斯托太多了。”
“你错了，”亨莉埃塔说，“约翰是独一无二的。”
“如果是这样的话——那是件好事！至少，我是这样想的！”
他站起身来。“我们最好还是回去吧。”
注释：
[1]伊格德拉西尔，古斯堪的纳维亚神话中的世界树。它的一条根通向冥界，一条根通向巨人之国，第三条根通向阿斯加尔德。